MageCircle: Air & Water

Part One - Air

 

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e Prelude f

A small orb of light floated along the colums of shealves. The faint light was enough to illuminate the dusty bindings of volumes long untouched by any mortal. The entire library was silent for even the intruders to the silent hall made no sound as they walked silently. A boy, no more then five years trailed in the wake of the old man’s robes. The boy’s eyes are wide with excitement in the glow from the orb that the man carried. As he passed by the ancient books, his eyes began to grow more excited.

Reaching into his robes with a withered hand, the old man pulls out a small silver key that appeared to be only a small rod rather they a key. Placing the key into the lock on a small simple door, he whispered something softly. The key glowed and he pushed the door opened. The boy followed, still frightened by what was going on for he had never been to this part of the Library before. As the old man closed the door, he looked around but could make out so little of what they were in. “Come, Tal,” the old man whispered, slipping the silver key back into his robes. Raising his hand as a beckon, the orb glowed brighter, illuminating a set of winding stairs and was soon lost in darkness. The old man decended the slippery steps carefully with the boy following with as brave a face as he could muster.

Rats skittered out of there way. Spider webs brushed across there skin. A cold draft washed over them as they went father into the stair well. When the boy was beginning to wonder how much longer they would have to walk, the steps leveled into a narrow passage. The old man’s orb revealed another door, this one crudly made out of wood and showed no key hole. The boy looked up at the old man. “Grandfather, is this the…”

The old man turned and smiled. “Yes, it is time you know the truth of our world, not the babble the preists talk about.” He placed a loving hand on the boy’s head and smiled.

“But why is there no key hole for the silver key?” the boy asked as they walked to the door.

“This door is guarded by more then a mere lock. It’s guarded by spells that sense our blood and know we are true. If we were not mages of true blood and heart, we would be in a dead end. Come. I promised your mother we would be back in time for bed.” Pouting at the reminder, the boy followed his grandfather inside. Lifting his hand holding the floating orb of light, the old man directed the magic to disperse to several light holders that were as old and musty as the artifacts that they revealed. “You know little about your bloodline, Taldain but I can tell you more. Or at least what I do know.”

The boy tore his eyes from the fascinating objects on the wall to look at his grandfather. “We are of pure blood, mother told me that,” he said, swelling his small chest with pride. “And that when you leave us, I will take your place as the Arch Mage of Thyrayyah.”

Talthon nodded, his eyes sad and smiling at the same time at his only grandson. “Yes, and your mother does not lie. But we are no different then the other Mages, of wolven, elven or human blood.”

Taldain pouted. “Then why are we special and can only guard the Books?”

“Look at the floor.”

Lowering his golden eyes to the floor, the boy did so. Though years of dust had obscured the pattern on the floor, Taldain could still see it. It was a circle of dark marble. Rounded diamonds of various marble decorated the rim with tails joining in an elegant pattern in its center. “That is the symbol of your Crest!”

“Yes,” Talthon said, seating himself on a dusty bench under a shelf of books and helments. “Little is known about that crest or where it came from. Or even what the symbol means. That history was lost long before the Great War. What is known is that we are the last of a nobel bloodline that has connections with the crest.”

“Am I a prince?” Taldain asked, looked at his grandfather almost hopefully.

“Perhaps,” the old man replied with a twinkle of amusment in his eye. “But the truth of that may never be known.”

Leaving the circle on the stone floor, Taldain came to sit before his grandfather as if it was time for a story or a lesson in his growing magic. “You see these things around you?” The boy nodded. “They were saved from a time long before ours. Long before the Dark Age set upon Rerir. Little is known about them but it is our duty to protect them.”

“From the Dark Lord,” Taldain stated matter-of-factly.

“Perhaps but I doubt old heirlooms to lost Houses will aid the Dark Lord in his quest to claim Deor, the last remaining free realm of our world. Now, be still while I tell you the truth of our world and it’s history.” The boy pouted slightly but waited eagerly. “You have seen the elves of Blackwood for they border Old Deoril in there forest. They were not always in the forest alone. Far north, west of the Dark Lords land of Diamord lays the barren remains of the elven kingdom. Long ago was it purged of it’s people that had lived there for years in harmony with humans. Trading and growing until the darkness of Diamord streached father then its borders. The Dark Lord had returned as a real being rather then a story passed on for generations.”

“Why?”

“Oh, no one know why but he did and it was the very heart of the human kingdom he struck first. Humans were weak at the time for they’re queen was not fit for the throne having gained it through marriage rather then birth. It was said that the true king was out there but only one found him. Prince Saryon-Aes’Selin of Tirsune had set out for adventure with his Mage compantion Mesi’Kann, a winged wolf known for his talent with the winds. They found the true heir in Jeba.”

“Jesparan Renis!”

Talthon held up his hand in acknowlangement. “Yes, the young king was not ready for the war that Aes’Selin thrust into his hands but they marched to defend the city of Khayr Rukan from the Dark Lord. Giving aid to the new king was Selin and the elven army as well as a Seer known as Emger Ronan, a winged wolf. In the beginning Jesparan lived up to his name and lead his army well. It was into the fifth night of battle that things turned against the elven army. At dawn they woke to find that Jesparan has fled. Before Aes’Selin could order his army to follow, Dezerak struck. The elves were anialiated and Sirannon fell. The body of the Prince was never found. Some elves fled from Rerir, either fleeing to Anaas, a sacred land where few mortals ever pass. Others say they tried to return to the Westland from whence they came but were never seen again. The Seer Emger was also lost not long after that battle. Stories tell of how Emger Ronan sent Mesi’Kann to find Jesparan.

“Jesperan made a last stand in the Pass of Duain near the Blackwood Forest at Mesi’Kann’s request, a suggestion from Emger. The wood elves did not come to there aid. Though the Pass was not lost, Blackwood itself took a new meaning for not only was the forest dark and trechourus, but it is said on the borders of the woods the soldiers who died in the Pass fled into the woods. The worst is said to be the torchored spirit of Mesi’Kann who was killed in the battle. The forest was soon the breeding ground for more evil and has remained thus ever since. The wood elves are said to be evil themselves but this is perhaps because they know how to protect themselves from the creatures of the wood. Jesparan went to Rune and proclaimed it as the new capital of Tir Asken. A year later Dezerak struck and Rune was destroyed along with the royal family.”

Taldain looked at his grandfather and blinked. “But Prince Jerren Renis is a decendent.”

“Yes. The family story says that the infant son was saved and brought to Nimat.”

Silence followed as the boy waited for the Arch Mage to continue. “Was he?” he asked at last.

“Perhaps. The woman with him was also a powerful mage in her time and was said to be the queen. Aiya was said to have wed a prince of Nimat. When the King died years later, the rulership was given to the son of Jesparen and Aiya Renis, not his own son. As you know, there is controversy between the two familes, Renis and Janaller. The Renis line has remained true for centuries. As the king lost his hold on the remainder of Deoril, the country was named Deor with Nimat its capital. Old Deoril sank into the control of the Dark Lord though no enemy has found or managed to besige Thyrayyah.”

 “But as men fight to keep what they hold dear, they’re land and people, other races have resorted to bitterness and resentment. The elves in Blackwood offer aid only when they must and stay in they’re woods, using the shield of dark creatures to protect them. Dwarves mine in the tunnels of Ennyndor, rarely coming from the mountains unless it be to trade or quarrel. And the fabled winged wolves, falael mariis, known as fralamar in they’re tounge, are as low as they’re wingless cousins. Hunting and living like the wild animals they are and caring not about anything but themselves. They are dangerous for the wolves have a magic scorce that is powerful and resides in they’re blood.”

“Like our magic?”

Talthon nodded. “Yes, but it is stronger. Much stronger for wolves were a mistake and a gift to this world. Songs in they’re tounge are told of how they came to Rerir. How a dying winged stallion, a distant cousin of the aryor, lay dying after being attacked by the Shadows. The stallion was the last of his kind and wanted the memory and legacy of the sky to continue. Thus, he granted his wings to a wolf and passed away. The wings bred into the bloodline and soon packs diverged and the winged wolves grew in numbers. Elves then granted them the gift of speech and knowlage, further separating them from they’re kin. It was from humans that they learned of the second gift from the winged stallion – magic. Flowing through they’re veins was the natural ability to weild and control the elemental powers as well as the celestial and dark. They are a strong force and it is predicted that they would be a great asset in battles against the Dark Lord yet they remain separated and divided. Individual packs scattered throughout the world. There is a special pack, a tradition with no meaning, that remains as the central pack of the wolves. The High Pack lead by a well respected or worthy pair has final say in many matters that deal with the other races. Only one High Alpha has steped forward to offer assistance to men, elves and dwarves. Sintann Nallar was known for his generosity and skill.”

“What happened to him?” Taldain asked.

“He vanished a few years ago, taking the hope of ever having peace with the wolves with him. Norc Esgan and his line have become a monarchy rather then the natural order of they’re kind. His grandson Alynn Easal now carries the title of High Alpha. Alynn does not take a stand either way and refuses to act like his grandsire yet it is quite apparent that he despises humans for they killed his parents.

“Have you noticed something, Tal? About those that come to Thyrayyah for knowlage in powers they wish to master?” The boy shook his head. “To few come. Most mages do not have the internal magic and such powers are passed on to generations. Many have a talent for it and can learn to gather the magic around them. But fewer people discover this talent in these dark times. The power of Diamord is streaching again, growing stronger and putting fear into the hearts of those being suffocated by it. Lord Dezerak is beginning to drain Rerir of it’s powers by destroying those born to weild it. Should a young boy or girl be found with the ability to become a mage, his minons destroy them. So few escape that I fear for the future of the Mages if a way to save Rerir is not found.”

Taldain stood, looking around the room. “Is there not something in here?” he asked, his eyes falling over the dusty shields, helments and swords. Books lay open or closed, neatly placed on shelves. “Perhaps a sword of magical powers that was made years ago to defeat him.”

“If such a sword was made,” Talthon said sadly, “then it would be sung of in ballads. But nothing is known of Dezerak safe the few archinves we have of Jesparan’s journal. Only clues from the Seer Emger Ronan point to the fact that Dezerak was here before and returned to start the Great War. For all his knowlage, Emger did not speak of a way to defeat Dezerak. Nothing exsists as a secret weapon against him.”

“What about love and hope?” Taldain asked, touching the leather bound book that lay open to the white glow of the lamps. “Mother says they are stronger then magic.”

Darkness lingered in Thalthon’s eyes. “If such magic exsists in either one, Dezerak would not have won the war and threatened our exsistance.”

“Oh.” Taldain was quite, peering at the book. “This is Jesparan’s journal?”

“Yes,” the old man said, standing up and coming to place his hands on the young boy’s narrow shoulders. “I have visited it occasionally to recall the words of the Seer Emger Ronan. Nothing has come to me for none of it makes sense. Perhaps, when the time is right, we will know what must be done to save Rerir from being eaten alive by Dezerak’s power.”

“Could you tell me the prophecies?”

Talthon smiled. “They are not prophecies, my boy, but warnings and clues.”

Pouting again, a trait he was well known for, Taldain placed his palm on the page of the book. “There has to be something…”

“Yes, I agree.”

“Why are there no more Seers? Was Emger Ronan the last of them, too?”

“It is believed so. The gift to see into the future is a rare one that has never been blessed upon anyone else. Emger Ronan is believed to be the only Seer Rerir has ever known. But come, it grows late and I do not want to worry your mother so. Perhaps more another night.”

Gruglingly, Taldain allowed his father to gather the orbs of light back into a single bright ball and lead him back up the trechous stairs and into the library. Talthon said nothing but felt once again the pressure of the dark powers pressing against the sacred walls of the Keep. For years his ancestors has gaured the secrets of the Keep while a city grew from mages coming to hide from Dezerak. Now, to those in Deor and Blackwood, the last two realms free of will to stand against the Dark Lord, Thyrayyah was known as the City of Mages. Dezerak, however, was growing stronger with each moon. Soon, Thyrayyah would fall, suffocated in the Darkness it was hiding in. And if the Mages of Rerir were lost, Rerir would surly end as well.

 

e I f

Winter’s slender fingers were beginning to wind themselves around the small ground cells of steel and stone. Fires burned in large piles for the soldiers that were to guard the prisoners for yet another night of starvation and shivering. Children born here only peered out at the only world they had ever known. Others crawled back into the darkness of there cells, watching the flames lick the edges of the timbers with shallow, feelingless eyes. As the soldiers laughed, gloated and drank, the guggled language of the land filling the night air, there came a screeching cry above. Prisoners wailed under the shadow that drifted past and oredhounds bayed in fear and respect, only to be silenced by there handlers. Wolves lifted there head and howled but it was not the spine-chilling call that one would think. There voices were hoarse, sickly, and sent the feeling of death and dread through one’s bones.

The shadow pasted, leaving the camp silent once again. The wolves snapped and snarled at the humans and prisoners alike as they made there own rounds. The oredhounds shrank under there yellow and sickly green eyes, seeming to curse them in there own animal tounge.

There was a moment where the wolves would move on, leaving the dark green eyes of one prisoner to look again toward the fire from the depths of his shelter. He lay with his tattered trousers that were as torn and stained as his own body. Matted hair of dark hue lay in a mop over his face where he lay in the dirt. Dark green orbs of untold depth were the only thing on this man that told of the spirit that still rested in his body. Few knew him for he kept to himself, never speaking. If any did they called him Sel and it was his name that he still remembered as real against the dreams that often came on the darkest nights.

Tonight there was no meal thrown to them this night. Sel watched as many of the other starving prisoners did, the soldiers fighting over large hunks of delcer. Scraps that were still good landed on the ground, only to be quarrled over by the oredhounds.

“They celebrate as if they actually won something,” a pale, gaunt man said, his voice as empty as his face. “What word?”

One of the younger boys was leaning nonchalantly against the bars of there cell. “Piece by piece,” he said. “Like you said.”

Sel’s eyes narrowed briefly at this comment. The elderly man was only called Hajar, a priest and human. Sel disliked the man greatly for he knew nothing of what he claimed. Humans were weak, selfish and untrustworthy. As Hajar gestured that his son come away, Sel listened, hoping that more of what the boy had learned from the babbling men. Haldar was a learned boy and knew more languages then most. But Haldar only curled up at his eldar’s feet, shaking with cold and misery.

Tonight, Sel thought. It must be tonight.

He waited while prisoners slept and soldiers stumbled off. Some remained sober, guarding the slaves to keep the oredhounds and wolves from them. The gaurds Sel did not fear, it was there beasts that made him rethink his plan often until he saw the flicker of the moon in the sky and his heart rejoiced for a moment at it’s face. It was a full moon, bright and guiding in the dark sky where clouds rolled. A storm. Perfect.

Moving quietly amoung the sleeping slaves, Sel slipped behind a young woman who was snoring loudly. He remained next to her while a demon wolf slipped around, only to be jarred at by a spear. During the short confusion, as the demon did not wish to back down when fresh meat was so close, Sel vanished pulled back the steel plate, slipped into the tunnel, then replaced it with so little sound the sleeping woman never stirred at the breeze that blew her dark tresses.

Stealing his heart against the rapid beating in his breast, Sel forced himself to keep moving, his senses atunded to the movement above ground as he crawled. It was an old tunnel and for this reason he felt himself flinching at every movement and doubting his choice to attempt another escape this night.

He had tried often and each scar throbbed against his skin as if reminding him that this was foolishness. Yet, if they choose to send the demons after him and tear him to shreads then it was a better life then that of a slave. He had been thus for far to long.

A steady pounding above him told him that the rain clouds had opened up, realeasing a down pour as he crawled. The tunned was narrowing, causing him to crawl on his stomach. Once or twice he stopped when soldiers marched above him, causing dirt to cascade on his head. Chills along his body, burning his scars so he had to bite his tounge, told him of a passing demon wolf and the burning, ceroding smell of death lingered with the footsteps of an oredhound. How long he crawled he did not know for he could only hear the rain, wishing it was on his face rather then above him.

His hopes of escape were suddenly brought to an end. He crawled through a narrow opening and rolled without a cry into a muddy cavern. A trickle of water flowed around him, filled with evil magic and tainted with dung and urine. He released his tounge, sucking on the blood he had drawn so that he did not cry out, before crawling around the tunnel. It was a dead end. Nothing his keen eyes could see pointed to a way out. Finding a muddy penensula away from the foul water he drew his knees up, watching the slightly glowing particals float away. His skin was already burning from it. It was collecting in a pool under a rocky crevice that held little hope for escape. To enter the water would surley burn him for life if not poison him. Closing his eyes he fought the urge to give up and to keep looking. Weak, cold and hungry, Sel closed his eyes.

Oredhounds are only quite for a time. Often, they mistake there time to attack. Sel heard the scuffle of paws long before the small openeing he had fallen through burst and a maw of blood covered teeth leapt toward him. Sel scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide in horror before floundering desperately up the stream.

Fangs gripped his legs and savegley pulled at it. Sel screamed, forgetting his quietness and fighting the urge to whimper in pain and surcome to the easy path of death. Kicking with all the strength he had, Sel broke the oredhound’s grip long enough to scramble up toward the stream again. Anouther hound fell from the opening and leapt at his companion. Hearing that there were more on the way, Sel flipped around to kick again at the hound while another grabbed his arm, tearing flesh and muscle so the pain was blinding. Dragging him into the water, Sel felt the painful bit of the water as it entered his wounds.

The water! He thought desperately. His only chance to survive the attack was to get into the water, even if he died later from infections from the leaking poison and black magic. Oredhounds may fear water but this was there own water, poisoned and evil. Sel’s fist smashed into his attacker’s skull and he dove for the pool. A swift paw knocked him sprawling on his face. Foul water entered his nose and mouth but he crawled as fast as he could. His hand landed on nothing and he fell face first into the accursed pool. Coming up once for air, he saw the oredhounds growling, saliva falling into the pool where it sputtered and hissed. With his wounds burning from poison and mind wavering close to death, Sel gasped for air and dove, his hands failing for his life in search of anything that would bring him out of this horrid place.

A tunnel just under the outcrop allowed him to squeeze his thin, frial body through it and into another tunnel that curved down. Realzing that the current was pulling him along, Sel fought of the urge to fight it and let it pull him. He pushed against the wall, his lungs screaming for air so that his chest hurt. It seemed like enternity. He prayed to the gods that he would live, then prayed that his life be taken swiftly. Then again, he had suffered and lived on the edge of death for years. Perhaps there was no escaping death, now. At least, he thought as his mind began to lose consiousness, it is better to die fighting then as he had seen so many friends die.

Then his dark world went black and nothing came to his mind again.

 

Sunlight bathed his body though the cold wind chased away whatever warmth the sun would give him. Slowly, the numbness of his limbs became a dul, aching pain that only grew worse. Rolling slowly to his side with a groan, Sel felt his lungs screaming with every breath he took. But he was alive.

Water lapped around him, less putrid as the poisonious sweage that he vaugly remembered escaping from. His eyes opened as he dragged along the rocky shore. It was still dark out for clouds loomed on the horizon, quickly moving his direction. The black rocks around him were sharp and jagged, slender sprouts of foiliage were dead or whithered from the foulness of soil or time of year. In a pebble covered cove, Sel pulled himself from the river, fighting off the dizziness long enough to asses his wounds. His leg was beginning to clot, as was his arm. The smell from them and the pain told him that he would have to find a way to draw out the poison. Risking his limited knowlage of magic would be futial here. Demon wolves would surley find him if he tried. Digging in the debre he found a rock that was sharp enough and set to work opening each wound, clinging to consiousness at the fire that was sent through his body. When each was bleeding freely, he eased himself into the fast moving river, letting the cold water wash his wounds better. His pants he pulled off as well as his worn, crudely made shoes that would ofer him little protection on the Plains of Ghast’Glain; it was better then walking barefoot, however.

At last he pulled himself from the river, finding an outcropping to hide in and let his mind wander where it will. Back to days when the sunlight had dappled the forest floor of his home, a creek babbled around mossy rocks, and singing could be heard not far away. His home, now lost forever, was still fresh in his mind. It was only this thought that had sustained him for so long. Four-hundred years of mortal men had he been enslaved in the fortress of Slagent. His dreams were haunted, often as if someone or thing was trying to reach him. A voice, fermiluar yet not, had urged him to try to escape just one more time, and he had. Sel smiled at this. He had escaped a place no one ever had. At least that was the roumur spread through out the prisoners.

How long the sun bathed him he did not know. Eventually he pulled himself up and began the tarrysome climb up the rocky banks of the muddy river. His feet slip occasionally, adding to the scars. The air becomes thick and heavy again, pressing down on him so he begins to weeze. A sharp jagged rock markes the end of this short journey and he looks over the desolation of Diamord.

Green eyes peer out into the desert heat. Once, he knew, this land had been lush and green. Forests once covered the hills and aryor raced throught the fields and meadows that were now a rocky, sandy wasteland. Some force stronger then elves had destroyed Diamord when the Dark Lord came years ago in the dawn of men. Much of Sirannon had been saved – some had been lost in those wars.

The sun is rising, marking the eastern horizon easily. He turns south, picking his way throught the rocks and petrified tree trunks, gnarled and twisted from age and dark magic that seeped from the river into there roots. He had nothing to gather water with thus paused to drink his fill. His memory was still sharp and though the water tasted bitter, Sel drank it, praying to the gods that he would live to have his revenge and that nothing had been sent after him. Demon wolves and oredhounds would kill him rather then take him back to that misearbale life as a slave to the Dark Lord.

He left the rocks and began to tred through the sandy desert. Lizards would skitter out of his way, peering at his passing with beady eyes. A side-winder crossed his path, never stopping as it skipped over the sand. Desert bushes became more scare as the day went on until mid day when he found himself walking through scorching heat, his body throbbing with pain and exchaustion, and his mouth dry.

As the sun climbed down from its zenith, Sel found his legs buckling. A wind blew from the north east, bringing his head around before he could fall. The stench was unmistakable and the fear riding before them brought out more fear. He squinted into the haze of the rising heat but could not yet see them. Wraiths. “So you have not forgotten me, Dezerak,” Sel whispered, tasting blood from his own lips and liking them. Why should the Dark Lord forgot him, his name, his lineage. This brought only slight satisfaction that he was worth the chase of the wraiths. He had no weapon and no way of achiving one. No magic he could weild flowed in this god forsaken place. Whispering a soft prayer, Sel turned and began to jog, his pain forgotten and the pursuit of danger giving him the strength he needed. He would die fighting if he must.

 

Water droplets trickled from the muzzle of a gray wolf as he lifted his head from the river. A salmon tounge flicked over the gray fur before he stood upright and alert, ears pitched on a narrow skull. There was a change in the wind. Not uncommon but it blew from Diamord which was never a good sign. Glancing to the skies, the wolf’s unusall gray-blue orbs scanned for shadows or wraiths. Yes, he could sense them. They were close but not yet near the border.

Snorting at their bravery but courious as to what could drive them so far, the wolf glanced at the water rushing at his feet. Just as he was about to turn his head, something changed in the sandy bottom which caused him to peer closer, his mind snapping suddenly at what he was seeing. A man was running through a desert, dark shadows of wraiths behind him, black swords gleaming in the sunlight they hated. With practiced skill, the wolf flicked the vision closer to the man they were pursuing. Blond hair was matted and muddy from years of neglect. His arm and leg were bloody and obviously infected with poison. As the man stubbled, the wolf saw his face fully and jumped. “Selin!”

The vision was cut off when the wolf leaped through it, splashing his way to the opposite bank, wings flaingly to keep his balance as he took off for the desert of Glast’Glain. If Selin had managed to escape after all these years, perhaps hope had just been restored for the people of Rerir. He dared not take flight with wraiths so close but not even a mage like himself could take them on and if he went to far into the Diamord the lines of magic would be too far for him to call upon. Twigs slapped his face though he tried to duck and only a few times did he lose his footing in his haste. Finally, the shadow could be seen through the thining forest. The wolf began to summon magic to him, trying to think of what he could do to at least give Selin some time to get across the river. If he managed to cross it the wraiths would either come where two fully trained mages, given Selin could still fight, would be able to destroy them and there steeds. If he didn’t or there were too many, there was a change he himself would be killed.

Bursting from the sparse undergrowth just as Selin stumbled and fell for the last time, the wolf quickly marked what was in pursute of the elf before letting the burst of energy go with a bark of command. The power rippled his pelt and feathers in the opposite direction before converging and racing toward the nearest black steed. The creature screamed at the touch of magic and fell, sending the wraith to the ground. Glancing at Selin, the wolf noticed that the elf was once again struggling to the river. “Damn,” the wolf growled. He wasn’t going to make it.

The wraith that had fallen from his dark horse shouted something in there gutral language and the ash wolf ducked seconds before the bolt of power struck him. Sending back his own attack, the wolf leapt out of the way of a horses flying hooves and sank his teeth into the creatures hind legs, breaking bone and tendon with powerful jaws. The creature screamed. A black blade sliced his shoulder and the wolf growled. The wound wasn’t that deep for he had been moving away when the wraith aimed the blow.

A challenging howl rose above the clambor of hooves. A black demon wolf leapt from the shadowy mist following the wraiths, it’s jaws open and saliva running down his throat. Demon wolves did not have poison in there bodies like oredhounds but they were more dangerous for they were mages in there own right and brutle fighters that new nothing of fair combat. Snarling in return, the ash wolf crouched before meeting the demon in a head on battle.

Front paws racked the thin pelt of his foe as the demon’s talons tried to get past the thick ruff that had grown in for the coming winter. Faulting a nip, the gray wolf latched himself onto the front leg of the other and twisted savagely, growling and cursing at the same time in the human tounge. When the demon when for his wings he let go and bounded out of the way easily. Ears pinned back and lips curled back, dripping with blood the ashen wolf crouched. His attack was halted by a shirll whinny that did not belong to any of the wraith’s horses.

The scream of the Dark Lords servents were echoed by a scream of terror from one of there horses as its life was spilled onto the dusty ground. The demon wolf’s red eyes were locked on the ash grays and leapt when his enemy was distracted.

A silver blur of light and raw power rammed into the demon and the gray wolf yelped in fear, the energy of light and dark colliding sending him flying through the air and into the sand. He looked up to see a silver aryor, an auora of nearly blinding light around him. The wolf wagged his tail as if a dog seeing its master coming home. The stallion tossed his elegant head before charging again. Scrambling to his feet, the wolf ran toward the river, managing to bring down anouther dark horse as he did so.

He reached the waters edge and saw the aryor kneeling to the ground next to the elf that had fallen one last time. Barking as if it would encourage Selin to get on, the wolf waited, every nerve in his body standing on end for despite the appearance of the aryor, the wraith’s were coming again. Inside, the wolf grinned. You want him, Dezerak? he thought. Not today.

A surge of power rippled through his body and he held it. This was no ley-line magic that had come to his bidding. It was something older, stronger and more dangerous. It was a power he hated using. A power that should have been left where he had found it.

Selin grabbed the long mane of the stallion and climbed on board with the helpful nuzzles of a silver-pink nose. When the elf was saftley on his back, the aryor stood and in a gracefully bound, took off to the river. The wolf stayed where he was, controlling the magic with all his might. Silver eyes were cold with hatred and anger, flashing like polished steel in the sunlight. As the aryor’s hooves touched the water, a wall of white flame rushed toward the wraiths. The last he heard was they’re dying screams as death finally claimed there souls one and for all.

 

“Well, the mighty elf-prince awakes.”

Selin moaned, coming out of the sleepy darkness he had surcumbed to slowly and painfuly. A soft, cold nose prodded his shoulder which erupted in sudden pain. Yelping in alarm he opened his eyes and stared into the muzzle of a silver stallion. “Mercy of Tasha!” he exclaimed before the muzzle moved back and became a head he recongiced even four-hundred years later. “Ilranis?”

The stallion snorted, tossing his head before trotting away as if he was satisfied with him being awake. His mane trailed on the breeze as if it was air itself and his silver-crystal horn caught the sunlight that filtered through the trees. Blinking again, Selin rolled over and into the freezing waters.

“That should wake you up. The enemy won’t stay at bay for long, Prince. We best be moving and quickly if you mind. I fear I may have only enraged your presuers rather then warned them off. You’re a mighty fine prize, after all. The last remaining Prince of Sirannon. Yes, a prize indeed and one that just might attempt to start an uprising against Lord Dezerak.”

Rolling to his stomach despite the chilled waters from the mountains, Selin finally found the only other possible source of the voice that was irritatingly chiding him. Seated on the rocky bank sat Emger Ronan. Selin did a double take at the wolf before his eyes widened. “You?”

The wolf snorted and sent him an annoyed glare. “Who else would come save your sorry hide?”

Struggling to his feet, Selin confronted Emger with eyes blazing. “Four-hundred years and you still live. How is that possible, Seer? Or do you no longer have those powers. I hope you do not, you lying...mutt!”

Taking a deep breath and sighing, Emger leapt lightly from his elevated perch where he had been watching Ilranis revive his rider. “You amuse me, Selin. Really. But unless you would like to have another go at Dezerak’s minons, I prefer you make a graceful mount to that steed of yours and get going. I cannot save you again. I have not the strength, let alone physical.”

“Amuse!” He was about to spout out more to the annoying Seer that had caused him as much pain as Jesparan Renis four-hundred years ago when Ilranis splashed over to him and nuzzled him urgently. He lay a gentle hand on the sleek neck, inwardly pleased with the breeding that had been put into the stallion years ago and annoyed at the neglect that made him appear wild and untamed. Ilranis arched his neck and began to paw the ground with one delicate hoof. Taking his eyes from the costomary warning, Selin peered off toward Diamord. “The sky darkens and the sun sets in fire.”

Emger was solume, knowing as well as Selin what this meant. “He sends Fyrfac, my prince. We best move and make for Khayr Rukan. You should be safe there for a time. Though the city has fallen to Dezerak’s minons, I think you are safer in danger then in a place he would expect you to run.”

His leg, healed my Ilranis while he lay in his own dark world, was sore but allowed him to drag his body onto the silver stallion’s back. Wincing slightly, he shifted his weight and tested his mounts training. He smiled softly as Ilranis responded easily to his requests and patted the neck. “Can you keep up?”

Sending him an annoyed glare, Emger bounded away with the aryor sprinting after him easily. As the storm grew behind them, Ilranis tested Emger’s own endurance until the winged wolf spread his wings and leapt into the air, gliding low and fast over the tree tops until they reached lowland country that was desputed land between Diamord and Rannhe.

“I will only slow you down,” Emger replied, flying close to Selin. Ilranis reined himself in to a steady lope, his ears pitched backward as he kept in mind the threat behind them. “Make for the Broken Hand on the outskirts of Khayr Rukan’s walls. They are known to Ilranis and will give you aid. May the speed of the aryor be with you.” Emger then veered off leaving Selin annoyed and courious at the wolf’s sudden behavior. In the air a winged wolf would have less trouble keeping up to a well bred aryor such as Ilranis. The same behavior seemed to be a repeat to the last time Emger had stood beside him in the battle he had been captured and taken.

Still frowning, Selin leaned over the neck of the stallion. “Nast, Ilranis!”

Ilranis sprang forward like an arrow from the string of a war bow. The aryor were bred for speed, stamina, and magic. Before the Great War, Selin had bred the best of the best for Ilranis. Now, flying across the Plains of the Rann, he hoped that the surefooted stallion would bring him to safety before the creature known as Fyrfac decended on him. A creature as hideous in power as appearance, the truth of the beasts origins were not known save that no mortal could escape him. He was the mount of Dezerak in war, as Selin had seen, and could act alone to do his master’s will. Should he be caught in Fyrfac’s clutches, there would be no turning back.

e II f

Ilranis slowed as they reached the Pass of Morh. Fatigue was already beginning to register in Selin as he slumped over the stallion’s neck, his thin fingers entwined in the air-like mane that danced over his legs as the aryor ran. Praying that the refuge that Emger promised him was close, Selin looked around them as the rays of a golden sun filtered around the peaks of the Morh. Night was decending. Glancing behind him, Selin felt the hunter getting close. And he was the prey. With grim determination, Selin nudged the slowling stallion into a trot. “Not now, Ilranis. He’s right behind us.”

Flicking his elegent head in either irritation or fear, Ilranis took off at a lope through the Pass. Relying on Ilranis’ knowlage of the lands new dangers that had grown since he was gone, Selin only clung on while his heart began to race as his protection of light was fading. He had no sword, no bow. Not even a stick to use as a weapon! He reached out for some form of magic to use in his defense yet found the ley lines as dry as the Saarn desert. Whispering elvish in Ilranis’ ear, Selin set the now tiering stallion into another full out gallop even as the wind began to howl with unearthly sounds began to reverbeat off the stone walls. Knowing that nothing simple would be in presute of him, expesially with Fyrfac leading the search, Selin began to search for an excape should he need to hide.

The silver stallion suddenly jumped sideways, his crystal like horn beginning to glow as he summoned his own magic to defend his rider. Selin struggled to hold on, cursing himself for being in the state he was even if he couldn’t help it. His entire body was on fire with pain from injuries healed only hours ago. Glancing behind him his stomach lurched. A storm of fire and smoke rose in Fyrfac’s wake with demon wolves sending out a chilling haunting call as they flew in disordered formation before the fire beast. Ilranis burst forward, his ears flat along his neck in determination to get Selin out of danger. With no weapons or magic, Selin could only grip the sleek sides with his legs and crouch over the feather-like mane flying behind the stallion. His heart raced and though he wished that Emger had not left him alone, he knew that even the Seer could not summon enough power to defend him now.

From crevices above the pass, Shadows began to appear. Ghostly figures of light and shadow that had eyes of glowing white, neither dead nor living as they continued to live a half existence in this world. Some drew back in fear seeing that those invading they’re home were being presued by the Dark Lord’s foulest servent. This worked to Selin and Ilranis’ advantage for neither could hope to battle the Shadows at the same time trying to out run Fyrfac and his hunters.

Something fermiluar flew past them and Selin cued Ilranis to turn sharply to the right. Thankfully someone had managed to train the aryor in such moves and the stallion changed corse and raced straight into the narrow gully that was often unnoticed by typical travelers in the years before the Great War. It was also in this very gully that Selin had become a prisoner and lost all he had. And if the gods favored him this once, he would regain all that he lost and live to see the fall of the Dark Lord. Only the demon wolves would be able to pass through the narrow confindments of the gully to get to him. Despite his failing strength, Ilranis ran through the rocks and debree left behind for years, up stone ramps and leaping effortlessly over crevices. Selin clung, determination in his face and andrenaline pumping through his veins.

Ilranis screamed second before talons tore through Selin’s shoulder and lifted him from Ilranis’ back. The aryor turned, his horn lighting up the gully in an unearthly light as he turned to face Fyrfac only to have the creature’s scream, full of power and black magic, hurl the stallion against the wall. Trying to stuggle from the vice-grip talons, Selin watched helplessly as Ilranis shot to his feet to defend himself from the pack of demon wolves that were closing in on him.

He had nothing. No weapons. No magic. Helplessly, Selin tried to find a way to detach himself from the talons gripping his shoulders as Fyrfac lifted him higher and back toward Diamord. So Dezerak wanted him alive. He could almost count himself lucky that Fyrfac wasn’t going to kill him yet but he did not want to see the inside of the Diamord ever again. Gathering his strength and momentum, Selin forced his body to swing, breaking more skin as he did so and searching for any lines of magic that he could use for a distraction of even the simplest kind. He was prepared when Fyrfac shifted to reposition him and he dropped like a rock to the ground some hundreds of feet below him. He heard Fyrfac scream as his prey escaped and turned on spiked wings to catch the elf in mid air.

Deadly talons tore through the elf’s clothing as Fyrfac’s attempt to catch him failed. Hitting the ground full force, Selin lost his breath from the inpact. Struggling to breath and regain his feet at the same time, his hands touched something cold and solid. As his eyes cleared he realized it was a blade, worn and rusted from many years of misuse.

And it bore the royal crest of Ta’menel.

For a moment memories raced across his mind of another time he had stood in this pass. The last time he had been here. Four hundred years ago with the elven army dying around him, the Royal Princes and King being slaughtered from his folly. As his fingers gripped the old blade, fire surged through Selin. Betrayal. Loss. Fear. Anger. With a sudden movement long unpracticed, the sword of Prince Aresor-Tar’Kealre was pulled from the earth and swung at the diving Fyrfac.

Fyrfac screamed but not because of the blade. His hide was thicker then a dragons, matted and full of rotting hair that was falling away. He did not fear mortal weapons nor ever would. His Master had made him invinsable. What filled the monster with rage was fuled with knowlage that Saryon-Aes’Selin would put up a fight. With long talons scraping the earth, Fyrfac settled to the ground and turned to Selin, nothing but a puny speck wielding a stick.

Holding the blade, who’s ancient magic was long barren and would have only responded to the true weilder anyway, as a shield against his foe, Selin began to curse the creature. “From this very hell you dragged me,” he whispered in elvish. “Long have I lived in remorse and guilt but no more. Your Master may hunt me until my dying breath but if you wish to take me back to Slagent, it will be nothing but a corpse. This I swear upon my family’s name!”

Fyrfac lunged and Selin sidestepped, driving the rusted blade straight into the thick hide. It snapped, sending Selin falling to the ground where he immedietly rolled to his knees, clutching the hilt of the blade. It was too old – but it was all he had. Whispering a prayer to the gods and Prince Tar’Kealre’s soul, Selin fumbled to get out of the way, searching for another weapon that scavengers might have missed.

A terrible stench came to his nostrils. Selin nearly retched an empty stomach before he felt and heard Fyrfac coming toward him. He spun to face his enemy only to have four steal-like talons rip deep into his sides and toss him some lengths before he skidded to a halt, the sword’s hilt having been flung from his hands. He looked up to see the monster stalking him, the rusted blade imbedded into the right shoulder where steam rose, hissing and realsing the putrid smell. Green acid mingled with the black, thick blood. Deep green eyes returned to will to win as he struggled to his feet.

“You’re going to have to kill me, Fyrfac,” Selin growled.

“Then so be it.” The voice was raspy, unloving and as sharp as the blade that was embedded in the creatures shoulder. He did not limp nor favor the forearm – he felt no pain. The voice sent chills through Selin and braced himself for certain death – with one hell of a fight.

White light erupted in the sky as an equine scream rent the air so high pitched that no mortal horse could have made a sound. The light struck the injured shoulder of Fyrfac, instantly turning the blood red and it dripped to the ground. Feeling the pain for the first time, Fyrfac screamed but made a bounding leap for Selin who grabbed a round shield (of his House), and threw it like a discus toward the advancing creature. It struck Fyrfac only to bounce away. Thrunder rumbled through the Pass and Selin closed his eyes. Damit! After four-hundred years of wanting to die he was about to face it at the dispense of this foul beast of the undead – and he didn’t want to. He wanted to live.

Fangs sang into his shoulders even as he made a sudden spring away. He screamed. White light shattered around him and the pain lessened. He heard Fyrfac scream and fell to the ground. Opening his eyes, hazed with pain and the knowlage that Fyrfac’s venomus saliva was already doing damage to his frail body, he saw taloned paws prancing around him then the delicate hoof of a silver aryor. “Ilranis…”

Tossing a delicate head, Ilranis screamed again, arching his neck as he sent a powerful spell born of desperation to save Selin into the crystal. His body became white, no longer a murky silver but a resilant pearlesent white that was so bright the pass seemed to have become day. Fyrfac reared back and screamed, trying his best to stay in place, waiting for the aryor’s power to wane and die. But Ilranis reared, pawing the air and screaming before driving toward Fyrfac. There was a shudder in the earth as black and white powers collided.

Selin’s mind went black and he never saw the outcome.

 

Fyrfac’s form was in flight when Ilranis still stood pawing the ground in rage. How dare that beast! His dapple coat was covered in blood, as red as any mortals and just as precious. His magic slowly resided, some trickling back in fine rivers toward the still storming stallion who flicked his head, throwing a fit, working out his frustrations before stepping solidly up to the fallen elf. They underestimated him. He was the strongest stallion in Rerir and he knew it. He could never kill Fyrfac yet he had gave him a wound to forever remember. His blood was black and thick, as were the blood of all those turned against the Light. Poisoned my magic so dark and twisted, the creature had lost everything, including his soul. Ilranis sensed it, locked and caged deep within what was left of his black heart. Perhaps Fyrfac was something more then the puppet of Dezerak. He did not care for if there was hope of reversing such evil it was beyond his powers or desire. Fyrfac’s saliva was leaden with poison that was already taking effect. Pluging his horn into Selin’s side, Ilranis’s body glowed with the regathered power that he had released moments ago to drive off Fyrfac. His body began to weaken and the glow died out.

Selin’s face was taunt with pain in his fevered sleep while Ilranis’ eyes were closed tightly in concentration. Giving a sudder, Ilranis suddenly collapsed and screamed, tossing his head and laying down next to Selin. Tossing as Selin did, Ilranis screamed until at last he lay still and unmoving. The sky whirled over head and it’s velvet blackness seemed to be smeared with a sickly green. He fought to restore the beauty of the night, his mind urging him to give in and surrender for it was futile to fight. But life was too precious and when Ilranis thought he would go mad with pain, something exploded inside him and the poison drained. He lay still and finally let the night wrap the blanket around him and slept.

 

Selin ran an unsteady hand along the warm neck. His head ached as did his sides as he shivered with cold and pain. Tears in his eyes warmed his skin as he stroked the stallion who slept. In his hand was the broken blade of Prince Tar’Kealre. He could not blame the stallion for what he had done. He still remembered the day the nearly black colt was born in the fine stables of his father and the intelligence in the blue eyes that had always remained blue. Dark and as deep as the night yet blue in there own right. Tonight Eredel Soryorael Ilranis had proven that he had something no other aryor had been able to master. Weanlings were trained to master they’re powers and through out they’re life, to develop it into a weapon or a healing tool. Who had taught Ilranis after Selin had disappeared? To know both healing and destructive was as valuable as dangerous.

“You did well, my friend,” Selin whispered, weakly pushing Ilranis’ body a few inches away from the pooling poison near the base of the silver neck. “Now, we will both rest.”

Laying his head against the aryor’s belly, Selin’s mind slipped easily into slumber and dream. It began like the others when he had been reliving the same day for four hundred years. Dark and gray with no color and no life. He was in his cell but those around him were dead. Blood oozed onto the floor, dripping from tilted necks, rivers of red slowly curling toward the drains. Selin remained alive, chained to the wall with shackles. Demon wolves were let in to feed off the bodies of children and adults alike. Horror stricken and paralyzed, Selin watched as the blood spread into a thick sheet on the floor and bodies were torn apart. Then the demons left and the door was closed.

Selin stared at the blood, his own had run cold and he suddenly retched. When his stomach was empty he began to stand only to find the cell cleaned. No, it wasn’t a cell, but a fine room in the palace of his birth. It was dark and the only light came from the high vaulted windows overlooking the plains and forests below. He no longer wore rages but his hunting outfit. There was no sword at his side, nor his dagger. Frowning, he searched for them. “Ah, Bralah,” he whispered when he saw them both on his bed, the thick draperies thrown back from the richly blanketed bed. His dagger lay next to the hilt as if Bralah had been to busy to put it back. His sword, Jaarael, an heirloom of his house for generations, lay next to it in a splendid vision of silver and gold, gems of emerald and diamond as well the symbol of his father’s house. The dagger was different for it was carved with the head of a dragon, fine rubies glittered on the hilt of gold and copper. This, he knew was from the House of his mother who had died not long after he was born. The House of Emgarion, the tamer of dragons that were nothing but myth.

Jaarael was placed at his hip but when his fingers reached for the dagger, it vanished, replaced with the hilt of a broken sword, rusted and covered in mud and blood. Selin blinked and stumbled back even as it rose and a shimmering hand took it. As the form became more solid in the sun beams, the sword became whole and new again. White eyes lifted as the man holding the sword looked at Selin. Stammering, Selin managed to get out the words “Prince Kealre,” before he fell to the ground in forgivness and respect. “Your Highness…”

When the prince’s visage said nothing, Selin looked up but it was now another man, still transparent and glowing. Rage and anger filled him and he rose in proud defiance even as Jesparan Renis’ image stared at him in sadness. The sword lifted and was swung. Selin drew his own blade and parried only to have the ghost sword fall through his a moment later.

“Khayr Rukan must not fall,” Jesparan said, his voice toneless and as cold as a bitter wind in December.

Selin growled. “You spoke those words to me ere you departed and I suffered. I care not that you died. Men are weak and worthless. I shall not make the same mistake again!”

“The City of Kings must rise and not fall. The City of Mages must fight.”

With another snarl, Selin spun on his heels and left his room. Jesparan was at every turn, sword raised before his face as he watched Selin make his way quickly through a maze, something that was not common for Selin in his own home. Jesparan was persistant in his following until Selin was running. Pain shot through his side and he feel to the ground in the stables. No one came to help him as he struggled to find a horse.

“Khayr Rukan must not fall! Thyraayah must fight!”

“Leave me be!”

Something cold struck his face and he tried to bat it away in his fury and fear. He heard a horse short and felt the persistant muzzle on his cheek before something like a wave washed over him, drowning the nightmare until he was calm and sane, his heart still racing but on the path to recovering.

He woke to find Ilranis pushing him with his nose but to weak to protest. He felt hot and weak, his body numb and head spinning. Blindly, he climbed onto Ilranis’ back, bearly feeling the stallion rise and his fingers knot themselves into the long mane of the aryor before a tranquill sea rocked him back into a deep slumber.

 

Bran Akerlen was returning from a fruitless hunt when he heard it. It was too light to be a horse thus Bran smiled at his change of luck. A deer was coming his way and his family would not starve tonight. Quickly dropping his sack and pulling out a bow he droped to the ground and waited while the hoofbeats drew closer. They were slowing, finally becoming a walk before speeding up again to a labored trot. As the beast drew closer, Bran realized that the beats were to heavy to indeed be a deer. Just as he was about to rise, the legendary aryor known as Solistic trotted into his view. Bran stared not only at the stallion but the figure clutching the fine mane that floated on the breeze, catching the moon from the sun. Never in his life had Bran seen this stallion and stories told of his beauty and abilities could not portray him. Slowly, Bran began to stand, leaving his hunting bow on the ground.

Solistic threw up his head and reared. The figure fell to the ground in a heap and a muffled cry of pain and the air being knocked out of his lungs. “My lord! Forgive me!” Bran cried, dropping to his knees as the stallion reared and tossed his elegant mane in anger. “Please, let me help. I mean you no harm.”

His eyes were lowered from that of the stallions. The knowledge that he was being glared at - that Solistic was studying him - was even more unnerving then seeing the magical horse up close. Very slowly, he moved his eyes up, falling first on the unconscious man at the stallion’s feet, protected within the four sweat covered legs. He was pale, bleeding and in serious need for care. When a muddied hoof stamped the ground, Bran raised his head to the stallion and froze. He could not look away. He felt naked and alone in the world.

Then Solistic moved and nodded his head.

Shock replaced fear and gratfullness replaced the shock. Returning to the bushes, Bran grabbed his things then went to the fallen man and rolled him over. Deep gashes and puncture wounds were across his shoulder and side. His cloths were rotted and full of blood and dirt. A foul oder was around him. If the wound was infected, which there was a chance that it might be, the poor man was in serious trouble. Matted hair framed the thin, pale face. Shouldering his own things to his back, Bran managed to get the man onto the silver stallion’s back and started for home. Solistic followed placidly, ears resting along his neck as if he was watching the man on his back. Wondering who was lucky enough to be at the mercy and rescue of Solistic, Bran urged the horse faster through the woods.

His wife would be furious with him. Dark was never a good time to be out with the things that seeped out of Diamord through the Morh Pass. His son had been punished many times for sneaking into the deeper parts of the Pass, even into the gullies that were hard for many to find. He had brought bad artifacts that were usless as well as beautiful. Being a blacksmith, his son found these things fasinating and many he tried to restore to former glory. They were from the fabled Great War, his son had announced. Some were finally crafted and had resisted much of the decay of time. Bral kept them in a seceret chest in his smith. Few ever saw them for they’re worth could be his undoing if they’re origin was known. Any weapon of the Great War could hold magical powers.

There was a fire burning in the hearth when he walked into the yard. He saw the curtains shift back along the windows and winced as he led Solistic to the barn. The old  bay gelding began to figet at the sight of the stallion. “Easy, Prince. He won’t be staying long.”

Solistic snorted loudly, rearing up his head in alarm to the statement. A single hoof pawed the ground once and his ears flattened. Bran recoiled. “Okay, maybe he is going to be staying a while…”

“Where have you been?” Salynd Akerlen had her hands on ample hips when she came into the barn carrying a lanteren. “Did you not see the storm this even…ing…”

Solistic’s ears perked forward in interest and he blinked as if telling the women ‘duh’. Salynd was froze in place as Bran lowered the injured man to the ground. “I was coming home when he caught up to me. I think he’s saved his young man from some major distaster in the pass. Stupid fellow, that pass is haunted and more! Have Mirell bring some hot water and blankets. We’ll keep in the barn.”

“And just why is that?”

Bran turned to his wife with a withering stare. “Because his powers are ledgendary!”

“He hasn’t healed him already, has he?” Salynd countered coming closer with slow, cousious steps so she could near next to the man. Running her fingers along his face, she quickly examined him. “He’s lost a lot of blood and the wounds are deep. They look like they should be deeper.”

“Perhaps he has done all he could,” Bran said, pulling the worthless shirt from the man’s body and tossing it aside. His fingers traced the edge of the wounds which were black, puffy and red. He looked back at the aryor who looked nothing like the proud stallion that he had seen carrying the man to them. “He must have fought something before his rescue run.”

Salynd nodded and stood. “Tend him. I’ll have Mirell prepare Bral’s old room and clean his wounds. If Solistic has saved him, there is a reason, as always.”

Nodding, Bran stood and went to one of the stalls to make sure it was in decent condition. He paused before looking back at his wife who was walking hasitdly out the door. “Sal.” She turned, axiousness on her face. “I’m going to Bral’s tonight.”

“Why?”

He looked down at the fallen man. “Because that’s an elf – and not of Blackwood.”

Salynd’s eyes widened but she hurried back into the house to call her daughter. Seventeen year old Mirell was surprised when her mother burst into the house telling her to make up Bral’s old room and open the windows to air it out. When she tried to ask why, her mother snapped at her and she went off to do her job. She had opened the windows to the nearly bare room when the arouma of herbs began to float into it. She recognized the smell – a healing slave. Leaving the room she ran into the kitchen. “Mama! Is papa hurt?”

Salynd looked up for a moment from her task. “No, some stranger Solistic brought to us. Go grab a blanket so we can carry him in easier. Hurry, up girl and stop staring with your mouth hangin’ out of your face! He’s lost enough blood for you to waste time!”

Mirell grabbed the large blanket there old dog Wolfbane had slept on for years before dying last winter, she raced to the barn in the dark. He father was next to the bloody figure on the ground when she ran in. Prince started but the silver stallion was no where to be seen. “Papa…Solistic?”

Her father looked up and smiled. Standing and reaching for the blanket, he gestured with his head to the open stall. “Resting. Sound asleep, he is! Guess it means he trusts us with his charge. Wouldn’t let me shut the door, either but I’ll expect he’ll stay long enough to rest then be on his way. Come, help me get this under him. We have to get him to the house and I want to get to Bral.”

“But, it’s too dark! Mama would kill you!” Mirell cried, helping lift the thin figure onto the make-shift streacher. “Why do you want Bral?”

“This fellow’s an elf and I’ve seen the ones of Blackwood. His features are different. He’s paler, and not because he’s dyin’ either. He’s ears are longer, too. Bral loves this stuff and would know more then we if he lives.”

Mirell nodded but whatever she wanted to say was cut off then Salynd rushed into the barn. “In, in, in!” she cried. “He’s dyin’ and talkin’ isn’t getting’ him better!”

The three carried him into the house. Bran left the women to there work, sitting next to the fire and wondering about the sudden turn of events of the day. Solistic would be gone by morning, he was sure of that. The ledgendary stallion of the elves rarely stayed anywhere for long. And the elf, well it would be a merical if he lived through the night.

 

Shafts of sunlight filled the room when Selin woke finally. His dreams had been dark. Jesparan and Prince Kaelre had come to him again but this time both were demanding he return to Khayr Rukan and to not let it fall. He had tried to argue with them that Khayr Rukan, capital city of men, had fallen years ago; that no hope was left in Rerir to stand against the evil of Diamord. They had persisted. Ilranis and Emger were also in his nightmares, both turning there backs on him while he lay mortally wounded and dying. The dagger of the Emgarion House had also flashed before his eyes, swaying slowly as if ticking away time. Then it would fade or the dragon would become real, roaring out toward him in a blazing inferno to engulf him.

But the dreams were gone. He felt cool and alive rather then fevered and dying. The room was cool with a morning breeze shifting the curtains slightly. He took a shuddering breath, pain in his chest rippling with the simple, needed movement, and closed his eyes.

Something warm and slender touched his skin and he sighed at the peace before opening his eyes as it drifted away. A girl stood over his bed, her brown hair highlighted in red in the sunlight from the window. She was comely but not very pretty with a rounded face and huge eyes that light up when there eyes met.

“Oh, mama! He woke up!”

She ran from the room and Selin managed a half smile before closing his eyes to rest them. He remembered now; the flight from Diamord, his rescue my Ilranis and Emger and the attack in the Pass of Morh. After that he could not picture anything save the dreams. Taking a deep breath he slowly moved his fingers and touched the worn blanket that covered him. He heard foot steps and turned as an elderly couple entered, the girl with them, and a young man poking his head into the room. Selin quircked an eyebrow at them but remained impassive to they’re entrance. After all, they had saved his life where Ilranis had had not the energy after his battle with Fyrfac.

“See!”

“Yes, Mirell. We see that,” the woman said coming up to him and placing a hand on his forehead. Selin closed his eyes. Not from her gental touch but from the headache that was slowing ebbing it’s way into his head and behind his eyes. “The fever has broke. How do you feel?”

Selin looked at her and nodded. “Much better,” he replied.

“Well enough to eat a simple meal?” Again he nodded. He hadn’t had a decent meal in years. “Good. I’ll get some broth for you. You’re as skinny as a rail so no doubt you’ve been starving. Bral, don’t waste his energy.”

The older man smiled while the younger glared slightly at the woman’s back. Mirell followed when her mother called. “Bran Akerlen,” the older one said. “This is my son, Bral. That was my wife Salynd and Mirell.”

Selin nodded. “Thank you for helping me. What of Ilranis? Did he fare well?”

“Ilranis?” Bral asked, his brow furrowed in confustion. “Solistic? He is in the barn still, which surprises us. He’s never been known to stay in a place for long.”

“Solistic? The White Phantom?” Both men nodded and Selin managed an amused smile. “Yes, I see why humans would call him such. His true name is Eredel Soryorael Ilranis, bred in the stables of Tirsune.”

Bral’s eyes widened. “Then he is much older then belived for Tirsune had been in ruins for…”

“Four-hundred years?” Selin replied, his smile and humor fadeing at the memory of his lost home.

The young man nodded. “Aye.”

“Enough!” Selynd said, coming in with a bowl of steaming broth in her hands. “Out, both of you. More questions when he is much better!”

Bral nodded, leaving Selin to eat the warm broth filled with herbs. He was asleep by the time Selynd began to tend the wounds. 

e III f

Dark storm clouds billowed over the rolling plains as a small company of riders trotted over the crest of a rocky  hill. It was a group of Deorian knights, five in company with there leader on a tall, leggy black gelding with a billowing red and gold cloak falling over his mount’s sleek rump. Golden brown eyes peered from under the mass of thick brown hair toward the clouds and a handsome mouth frowned while checking his mount. He turned to his worn out party. They had left Nimat with ten men – five had been slaughtered on there mission to Ennyndor – a mission that had been utterly useless and pointless in Jerren’s point of view. Even thinking about it put him in a foul mood. “There is a shallow canyon we can use for the night,” the man said, pointing to the dark shadows that marked the edge of Blackwood. “Perhaps a hunting party will be near by should things prove ill.”

“My lord,” a black haired man said, his cloak black with gold as an ignista to his rank as a royal protector. “Perhaps we should ride till dark.”

“I agree, Prince Jerren.”

“No!” the prince snapped. “There is a storm blowing in from the north. Whether it be rain or evil I care not as long as I am close to Blackwood.”

The protrector snorted. “Prince Tiarnen’s kindness goes to your head. Elves are not to be trusted. Especially those that tame evil creatures and live in a dark wood.”

Jerren shot the man a disgusted look before spurring his mount down the hill and toward the shadow of Blackwood. He rode in silence, wrapped in his thoughts and ignoring his men whisper behind him. His father was a fool! Having spent hours trying to convince the old man that the Dwarves of Ennyndor would be as much help as the Elves, he had still been sent on this foolish mission. At least he had been able to pick his men. Perhaps that was why he felt so lost and upset. He had picked ten men to accompany him and his protector (a man he could not wholey trust), to the mountainous region of Ennyndor. Winged wolves had stalked them and one pack had attacked, taking down a horse and rider before they had escaped. Knowing that wolves would only kill hunting parties if they were starving or had been corrupted by evil, Jerren had ordered a quick retreat, in which another horse was brought down but the rider escaped. That man still lived, riding a horse of a man who had been taken down by the goblin and orcs that they had crossed paths with at one point. To many had fallen on a foolish mission that he had half-heartidly lead. He understood why his men did not wish to venture near the eaves of Blackwood but Prince Tiarnen often had patrols in the north and with the increasing threat of attack there was a chance that he would be there.

The elven prince came seldom to Nimat, capital city of Deor. He was often quite but Jerren found him a good listener to his rants and tantrums that he was told he often went into. Tiarnen also had good opinions on politics and would willingly offer adivse to Jerren if asked. He was a friend but losley for there fathers did not like the others and a rivalry was set between Blackwood and Deor. Jerren did not know if Tiarnen would even allow him to take refuge if he was to ask it from a storm that had his blood crawling with unease. Thus, he would not ask but nudge, as Sir Terron, his protector, would say. He would sit on Tiarnen’s doorstep, as close as he dared, and hope the elf was there and let him stay.

By the time the horses stumbled down the shallow slope of the canyon Jerren had mentioned, the darkness had closed in on them and lightnight was tearing up the sky to the north. Wind rushed through the tall grass of the plains, spooking a few of the horses  who were being tethered to a log that was created for that purpose. It was a canyon used often for travelers and it was most likely put there by the elves. As his squire went to take care of his bed roll and help with the fire, Jerren walked to the southern end of the canyon and peered into the gloom of Blackwood. They were leagues away from the dark, twisted trees that seemed to be reaching spiked fingers toward them, a fence that no one would dare enter. Only once had Jerren been in the forest and he had not liked it, even with Tiarnen as his quide. He men would not have to worry for he would not enter Blackwood unless he absolutely had to.

“My Lord, something to eat?” Talyr said, holding some bread and dried meat, all they had left of there rations, out to him with shaking hands. Jerren quircked an eybrow at that lad for he was never afraid of him.

“Are you frightened of my after all this time?” Jerren asked, taking the food and walking back to the fire his men had started. He frowned at it for he did not want to draw attention from the eyes of the wood, yet said nothing. If they were attacked it would be a fine lesson learned from those that lived.

The boy, just coming into manhood, shook his head and sent a weiry glance at the woods. “It is the woods, your highness. I do not think a fire is wise. I’ve heard stories. My grandfather told me them. The woods have eyes. Would not a fire draw them out to eat us?”

Jerren chuckled. “Indeed.” He left the boy to fret and went to sit down, listening to his men talk of women, wine and war. Many had seen war for they were still battleing skirmishes on the border of Deor. The northern front took much of the blow for Saarn seemed to have fallen under Diamord’s dark spell sooner then the others and fought willingly for the Dark Lord. It was a pity, Jerren mused in his mind, for the horses and unicorns of Saarn were the best bred in speed and stamina despite being small desert horses. It was from Rand that the best war horses had been bred. Most of the line was probably whipped out long ago by Dezerak’s greed for his own army’s need for mounts. Rand, he knew, would be the next to fall unless aid came to it quickly. No, he thought glumly. If help came to Rerir. Even Deor was losing it’s battle. Skirmishes were becoming greater and with more force. Rumor had it that Fyrfac had been set out again to hunt.  Dezerak’s evil creature that resembled a dragon in paintings yet as black as the night with fire as eyes and in his claws, that could kill a man with his gaze and was as tall as three war horses.  No one in this decade had seen him thus the notion that he could be free again was both pupostuous and frightening. Ledgend said no one could live once Fyrfac decided to kill them.

He finished his bread and lay down, watching as the men drifted off to sleep one by one. Jerren had assigned a routine sentry duty to each man. Sir Banall had taken the first watch and stood near the southern exit, his cloak wrapped around him and eyes trained to the woods. He had been the man to surive the wolf attack and has spoken little to Jerren or anyone else since the incident. Jerren resented being blamed in such away for something. He had done all he could that day and the days after. Talyr was curled up, already dreaming of some pretty girl he was forbidden to have until he was proven in battle as a knight of Nimat.

Sleep would not come and Jerren rolled over, staring at the sky that flashed with lightning from the north. For a time he took no notice until he heard the distinct rumble of thunder and sighed. Slowly he rose and went to watch the northern sky, frowning as he continued to see the flashes grow. It was more there tint and color that worried Jerren – fire. Red and orange danced amoung the storm and as a breeze caught his cloak Jerren shivered from something deeper then fear and colder then chill. Dread. Dezerak had long lain silent and dormant, laying sieges to Deor. Almost lazily now that Dezerak recalled.

“You see the storm, too.”

Sir Banall stood behind him, looking pale and grim in the wake of the storm. “Fyrfac rides that storm if stories are not mistaken about him.”

“I doubt they are and I believe them though I have never seen him. Would Dezerak plan such a huge attack on us so soon?”

Jerren frowned but not directly at the man. His focus was still fixed on the storm in the distance. “It is still far to the south, perhaps closer to Khayr Rukan. I think Dezerak would devise something a bit more quick for us, and with less warning.”

They watched in silence though the storm did not come any closer. The lightning suddenly took on a new color, filling the clouds with unearthly light that seemed to suffocate it. When it was gone, the storm was weakening, reteating from it’s rolling progress into the south and back to whence it came. Jerren raised an eyebrow at it. “Strange. Perhaps it was something else. A warning from Dezerak, perhaps.”

Sir Banall shook his head slowly. “Or something went wrong. My father said there are still forces in this world that can fight creatures as strong as Fyrfac but not defeat them. The ledgendary silver unicorn, for one. They say he can destroy a demon wolf with a flick of his head and heal the gravest of wounds.”

“Khaian,” Jerren sighed. “The ones the north calls Solistic because of his coloration.”

“The very same, my lord. Will you take rest?”

Jerren shook his head. “Nay, it eludes me even after a tiresome ride. I will stand watch for a time if you want, Banall. But I must put out this fire even if I believe Prince Tiarnen keeps the evil away from us tonight.”

Giving the prince a skeptical look upon that remark, Banall went to his bed roll and lay down, soon sleeping while Jerren quietly put out the fire. He looked at Talyr and smiled softly, knowing that the boy would be sleeping better if he knew the fire was gone. The wind had died down and all was quite on the plains. What had caused Fyrfac (for he could only believe that a storm of fire and clouds was created by the dreaded creature), to depart so suddenly. Could Solistic be responsible for such a feat as to cause the demon to retreat back to his hell and master? Leaving the embers of there fire to smolder, Jerren went to a rock and sat down to gaze into the dark night, his mind wrapped in thoughts of personal and political matter as well as what the world was coming to.

 

The fire went out. Too suddenly, actually but she could wait until she was certain all were asleep and figure out where the sentry was posted. All she wanted was a horse. Some food and blankets would help her a great deal, too. Dressed in her rags and barefoot for the past two weeks, Khayrael Melranah had lived in horror that she would be caught and killed like her parents had in Rand when the darkness had taken her village at night. She had seen her parents killed before fleeing on the old mare her father used for plowing. Only a week into her escape and the usless horse had died on her. It was old, she knew that, but the last few days on foot had been miserable and frightening with the wolves howling and other creatures that had surley been watching her passage.

She had stumbled upon these men at nightfall, seeking the edge of the forest for comfort as well as a shortcut to her destination. Thyrayyah, her father had cried as he fended off the orc and huge goblins that had come into the house. He had said the City of Mages could offer her protection as long as she had the house emblems. She had found them even as her mother was killed and father broke into a rage at her death. Khayrael hadn’t remained in the house long enough to see her father die. She had done what he had said – grabbing the ornate box containing her father’s most cherished posestions, she had fled into the paddock to grab Midnight. She still had the sack she has shoved the heavy box into. The other night she had opened it but found it’s conents useless save the dagger in an ornate hilt and papers. Only the dagger could get her money to buy food and cloths. But that, she had decided, would be better use as a weapon if she needed it. Plus, her father would not want her to sell anything in this box. She would keep it.

Time passed slowly. One man remained on watch on the north side of the cliff. She sighed. There was no way she was going to get past him. Come dawn, they would rider away leaving her hungry and alone once again. Khayrael looked at the man again, crossing her arms as she almost willed the man to leave. Go away! she raged in her mind, her eyes trying to see which horse would be the easiest to get. She had been raised with horses and had trained some for the knights of Rand before the battle became worse. A good war horse would only listen to it’s knight thus taking a knight’s horse would probably be out of the question if she wished to slip in and out without being noticed. She was pleased the knights hadn’t taken many of the supplies off the horses for she would have something until she found her way to Thyrayyah.

Most of them were large, sturdy black horses (with Rand bloodlines), that were obviously the knights’ horses. A small bay stood near a leggy black, head down in it’s slumber. She smiled. Now that was a horse built for speed reather then endurance under an armored solider. The little bay appeared to have Saarnan blood, another prospective mount. Which one she would take was another question entirely.

She glanced back at the man who seemed to have dozed off against the rock he leaned against. Taking a deep breath, Khayrael slipped away from the grassy hideout and down toward the horses, her moves as careful as a wolf and body ringing with every slight movement and noise. When she reached the horses, she reached out to the black first who sniffed her hand before trying to nibble. Withdrawing her hand and fighting the urge to punish such a bad and painful habit, Khayrael began to untie it from the hitching post created by the slender log wedged inbetween a pile of bolders and the side of the canyon. The small bay poked her arm and nickered softly. She pushed it away then glanced over her shoulder to survey the sleeping camp. Her heart pounding so loud she thought they would wake up by that sound alone, she slipped the reins free and began to back the black horse out.

Then something caught her attention and she slipped to the ground automatically behind the horses legs, holding the black still as if he was still tied.

One man rose from his blankets as if he had never been asleep and quickly roused the others. Silently, they seemed to be breaking camp. Drat! Quietly edging back to the tree she fumbled as she retied the black horse and slipped quickly into the shadows. She watched as one man came to the horses, untying one after throwing his sack over the saddle and untying it. Four came and went, taking a horse and departing into the shadows. The man at the rock and one figure lay sleeping quietly. The fourth man came back, taking a dapple gray and leading it in the direction of the others while a fifth stood motionless. Even in the darkness, Khayrael could feel the bitter anger and hatred pouring out of him. She glanced at the sleeping figures, her breathing ragged. She tried to duck down lower, hoping that her movement and noise would not be discovered.

A ring of steal, slow and soft, made her heart leap. Holding a small dagger in his hand, the man held it to the moonlight like an offering. She watched as the man went to the sleeping figure curled up in the blanket yet. Before Khayrael realized what had happed, the dagger cut the sleeping figures throat so quickly the man had no time to scream. The black horse and small bay fidgeted. Khayrael was paralyzed to move or breath. What if he killed the horses, too? She would have a long journey to Thyrayyah.

The dark cloaked man now moved to the figure by the rock and she knew he was going to kill this man, too. Why? She almost didn’t care and knew that she would have to make her move now if she had any chance of getting out of here alive herself. It was the bay she chose at last. Her fingers fumbled as she untid the knot in the teather rope and in one quick movment, vaulted to the saddle and cried out for the animal to run. She raced right past the startled man with the dagger and into the night, swiftly turning west toward Blackwood Forest.

 

The yell and pounding hooves woke Jerren Renis from his sleep. “What in…” He spun around, seeing all but his black gone – and Sir Terron holding a bloody dagger in his hands. Jerren froze. “Sir Terron?”

His protector spat on the ground. “You’re as worthless as your father,” he sneered. “And that was Telyr’s horse. Since he’s dead you’ll have no need for it. I’ll leave that black as a gift to your friend in the woods. I’m sure he’ll appreciate finding it along with your body.”

Jerren’s temper flared. “Taritor! Murder!” Telyr! He had killed Telyr who was one of the finest squires he had ever had. It was Telyr’s blood on the dagger that Terron held. “I’m not dying without a fight!”

“So be it. Your weapons are over there. Now, can you get to them, your highness?” he spoke the title with such contempt that Jerren’s gut kicked him so hard he wanted to vomit. He was being betrayed by his own protector! Terron lunged at him and Jerren managed to get out of the way, grabbing the man’s arms and pushing them away while he scrambled to get to the black who was dancing with the sudden change of commotion. He heard Terron come up behind him and turned just in time to grab the wrist, keeping the blood soaked blade from his own throat. Straining, Jerren began to feel his strength give out and feinted to drop to the ground, dragging Terron with him. The dagger missed his throat and chest but drove straight into his shoulder. He screamed with a growl of rage and desperation before gutting the man in the groin and rolling away from him.

“You’ll die, Prince Jerren, with no one to find you until it is too late!”

“Why? You could at least humor me in my last minutes,” Jerren spat, his eyes never leaving Terron as the circled, the knight staying constantly between him and his own weapons.

Terron chuckled, deep and low. “You really think your line is the true rulers of Deor. You father never ordered his mission, you know. The true heir did. Prince Ralur Soreath, the true prince, wanted you dead. With you gone, he can claim the throne that was rightfully his until Queen Aiya Renis declared her son of a dead, weak king as the ruler of Nimat and of Deor. Your father will mourn you – then die. You won’t be there to save him. Not that you care, do you Jerren…”

“Enough!”

Jerren and Terron froze. During they’re skirmish neither had noticed the black figures metarlizing out of the woods astride dark unicorns who tossed they’re heads but as quiet as the elves that rode them. Jerren nearly fainted with relief, only now feeling the pain in his shoulder and the warm blood that was soaking his tunic. He knew that voice. Commanding and solid, use to giving orders yet holding a tone of tenderness and compassion at the same time. Prince Tiarnen rode closer, casting his hood back and glaring at Terron with such contempt that it made the mad drop his dagger. With a deft flick of his finger, Tiarnen had one of his men retrive the dagger so that there would be no mistake as to the fact he meant business. Then he dismounted and came to stand between them.

Blond hair spilled onto the elf’s slender yet muscular shoulders and the black tunic and cloak that he wore. His yes were dark – Jerren knew them to be a deep ocean blue that seemed to change with his mood. For all he knew, they were black with wrath at the moment. As long as it was fixed upon Terron, Jerren had nothing to fear. The elven prince glared a moment at the knight before turning to Jerren.

“This is twice I save your life. Someday, you will come to save mine.”

Jerren nearly laughed at Tiarnen’s uncanny abiltity to make light of any grave situation. “If I am ever given the chance, I believe I will.” He glanced at Terron.

“We will track your thief, if you with, your highness. As well as tend you your wound. We will leave this man’s fate up to you.”

Jerren nodded. “I want the other caught, too,” he said. “Sir Terron can tell you where they went. They’re probably waiting for him. As for the thief…yes, he should be caught as well. It was a fine horse I would hate to lose in these times.” When the elf chuckled, Jerren raised an eyebrow at him. “Is there something amusing in my request?”

“None, my lord,” Tiarnen smiled. “Save that your thief is a girl, starved and probably in desperate need of what she stole. These are dark times and I would not doubt her motives. But I will send a party to meet those waiting for this murderer. And the girl, if you still so wish.”

“Nay, it was my squire’s horse and thanks to Sir Terron, has no need of his steed any longer.”

Two elves came to bind Terron after he had stood in there firm grips while the princes talked. Tiarnen gave his orders to his men. Five went to pick up those that would be waiting for Terron. Talyr’s body was wrapped and placed on a streacher and taken toward the wood along with a bound Terron. The elven prince stayed with Jerren who remounted his horse and followed the elves into Blackwood.

e IV f

 “You are lucky this wound is not very deep,” the elven healer said.

“Why?” Jerren asked, his tone grouchy as he lay in the soft bed made of soft furs and quilts.

Healer Antaren snorted. “Tiarnen has better things to do then babysit the stupid son of a human prince,” Antaren replied as he applied a healing slave to Jerren’s shoulder. Hurt, Jerren said nothing for he knew Tiarnen was more compasionet to his kind then his people thought he should be. He tried not to take there friendship for granted but is was damn near impossible when he would met the elf again in some state of crisis. Of course, he was thinking more often about going after the girl and getting the horse back. Terron and his men were being held by the elves. Where, Jerren didn’t care. He may be a prince and Tiarnen may have saved his life but such hospitalities wouldn’t last too long if the other elves had anything to say about it.

Antaren left him to rest after binding the wound with fresh linens. Sleep came slowly but when he slept it was dark and peaceful.

Sunlight from the tatched roof of the tree-top dwelling woke Jerren who streached before remembering his wound and winced. Cursing himself he sat up and looked around. Elves that patrolled the borders preferred a tree-top refuge from those that prowled the ground below. It was late morning, judging from the position of the sun, and the birds were still singing. 

Something moved at the end of his bed. A white snake was coiled at the end of it, red eyes watching him with deadly intenet. Jerren froze, his heart leaping to his throat as the serpent moved toward him in a slow glide. He wanted to scream and tried to locate where his weapons were. Unable to take his gaze from the snake he could only watch as it drew closer.

Someone chuckled and came to the bed. “Mirva, that would be enough,” Tiarnen said, tapping the snake on the head slightly in reprimand. Mirva turned to him, her forked tounge flicking out of her mouth before she slithered her way up the elven prince’s arm and coiled her self around his body. “Mirva is Antaren’s. He probably asked her to guard you knowing his fear and dislike of humans but she likes to play.”

“Was she going to eat me?”

Tiarnen smiled and shook his head, his eyes on the snake’s body as her head had settled to rest in his hair. “No. She needs to eat rarely. But she would have also altered Antaren is something had gone wrong with you or something more unplesent then her had come. Antaren trained her himself. She’s quite ineligent.” Jerren snorted. Mirva raised her head and stuck her tounge out at him, taking him aback into speachlessness. “Dress and come to the main lodge for something to eat. We need to talk.”

There was a tone of graveness in Tiarnen’s tone that worried Jerren who stood and dressed carefully once the elf was gone (taking the snake with him, thankfully). The platform on which he was being allowed to rest was richly furnished thus he had a sudden guilt that Tiarnen had allowed him to use private quarters. There was a wall of sort though the roof was built to keep out the rain with the help of a thick black canopy. The trees used for the post were huge at the base yet this far up they were about the size of a normal tree. Few elves moved about thus he had to find his way to the lodge by himself which took a few more minuets then anticipated. Tiarnen was alone with in the large hall, a meal before him that was untouched as he went over scrolls and some smaller papers at his side. “You patrol even during daylight?”

Tiarnen looked up and presented a small, half smile before nodding. “Continuous. There are fifty of us at this post which I spread out to cover much of the northern front. Please sit and eat. How is your shoulder?” He pushed the papers aside to pour a glass of wine for himself. Never one to miss out on the wine the elves managed to get a hold of for it was the best in the south, Jerren allowed his glass to be filled.

“Better. I wish our healers knew your herbal remedies. Perhaps I would have less scars.” He sipped the wine before breaking a piece of bread and some of the grainy porriage with a slight maple and wood taste that was oddly pleasant to the tounge. “You had things to tell me?”

Tiarnen looked at him as he added some fruit he cut up into his meal. “Yes but you must return to Nimat as soon as possible or prince Ralur Soreath will surley win in reclaiming his family’s title.”

“So Ralur is the true heir and I am not?” Jerren asked, a rock the size of a river bolder landing in his empty stomach. “How do you know?”

The elven prince’s eyes became hard and knowing, something that Jerren always hated for some reason. “I knew Ralur’s ancestor during the Great War, Jerren. I remember that day and it is something I will never forget. Men know so little of that War and we, as we never took part, know even less. Like Thranorn, my father and king who was still ruler at the time, Ralamen refused to aid King Jesparan when messangers came to support there cause and Jesparan cursed them. I was only a boy then and snuck away to watch the battle in the Duain Pass and saw the Dark Lord retreat. Human soldiers caught me and I was told to deliver a message to my father. It is partly because of that day that my people hate yours – and likewise. King Ralamen and Thranorn did not lend aid when Rune was attacked, either thus I do not find it surprising when Queen Aiya proclaimed that the line of Soreath was to be executed or stripped of title or rank. Ralur is a weak decendent but true and direct. He has right to claim back his throne. But that throne is also yours – as well as another.”

Jerren looked at him in confusion. “Rune?”

“No, Khayr Rukan. Jesparan Renis was the last suriving heir of the High City when Dezerak burnt it to the ground and enslaved it’s people. You, I believe, were named after Jesparan’s father, Jerren.” The young prince nodded, focusing on the elf as his porriage grew cold under his raised spoon. “Thranorn told me of your line, at least of as much as he knew for true origins of anything in Rerir seemed to be lost even in song and ledgends.” He pulled out a parchment roll and handed it to Jerren who unrolled it and scanned the family line – his family line –  while Tiarnen spoke. “Jerren Renis was the ilegiment son of High King Ilond Tahannel who’s family line is unknown past his great-grandfather. His mother gave him her name to hide his heritage. Ilond knew of his son and searched for him, asking the aid of a long time friend, Saryon-Aes’Selin of Tirsune.”

“The Aes’Selin lost in the Great War?”

Tiarnen nodded gravely. “A costly lost and grave to my people. Aes’Selin was a friend to many in those times and expecially to the High King whose control over the four kingdoms were weak and frail. The elven prince was of a royal bloodline and highly respected for his skill. He sought out the woman that Ilond spoke of and after much persuasion that she could speak of her son to the king he found a name to search by – Jerren Renis had gone off on a foolish mission to decifer what magic really was and how it worked. Aes’Selin found him dying in the Pass of Morh years later. It was during that time that Dezerak had woke and was moving an army to Khayr Rukan. Ilond had already died of a engulmar wound years ago. Jerren revealed to Aes’Selin that he had a son in Jeba and if Dezerak moved to attack Khayr Rukan that his son was next in line to take the throne rather then frail sister that had succeded Ilond.”

Chewing on his bread quietly, Jerren nodded. “I see. But even I have no hope of recapturing the throne of Khayr Rukan.”

“No, but times are changing once again and the Age of Darkness may go a new direction, either to worse or better in the years to come. Dezerak is a pacient one and will take his time to strike at Deor and even Blackwood. The kingdom of Rand as already fallen.”

“When?” Jerren cried, agast.

“Nigh two weeks ago. The north belongs to Dezerak and our allies grow thin. There are still some that we could try to convince to aid us if he attacks in full force but we would still be gravely out numbered.”

Jerren looked at him. “It was on such a mission that I was sent.”

“A false mission,” Tiarnen corrected him, raising his hand. “Sir Terron repeated the order prince Ralur gave him in full. Only the dwarves near Jeba and Blackwood would aid us now for they are not corrupted as the rest in Ennyndor. Indeed, they fight there own battles but with there own kind.” Jerren’s eyes widened. “Humans see too little in Deor, I’m afraid. Arch Mage Talthon says fewer come to the City of Mages to learn to tame the powers they are born to weild. It is a sign Dezerak is growing and graining control of all that is good in this world.” He shook his head gravely, deep sadness in his blue eyes as he sipped his wine.

Jerren was silent and ate his meal quietly. How Tiarnen knew of his family lineage was a surprise while at the same time he should have suspected it. It also made him wonder what Rerir had been like before the Great War and the Age of Darkness had settled over the land. Had the races lived in peace or was there a hidden strife that lead them to be so susspetiable to there down fall? Jerren suspected the later after what Tiarnen spoke of about the lord of Nimat and the Blackwood elves not coming to the High Kings aid when Dezerak had struck in the Pass of Duian and Rune, Jesparan’s last stand. He was the sixth generation of the Renis line, pure and untainted like Ralur’s. The boy, not much older then him, was as ambitios and greedy as his father and it made Jerren sick to think a spoiled brat would succed the throne of Nimat in such a curcial time. “You have any news of the dealings in Nimat?” he asked Tiarnen when the food had been cleaned up by some of the men tending to the prince and his quest. Jerren was rolling his glass of wine around in his hands while Tiarnen was busy with his own work.

“The choice is up to you as to what you do but I will say this,” Tiarnen said, looking at him hard. “Ralur is moving to take the throne. Terron revealed much about the princes plot and Ralur knows of an army of Dezerak’s moving toward Nimat. They slipped the borders and were marching toward your home city ere you passed into Ennyndor on your false mission.” Rage flickered in Jerren’s eyes and he nearly stood but Tiarnen held out his hand to tell him to sit back down. “As you know, the King himself will rider out to met the foe that has boldy set foot in Deor. He will return victoriously dead or mortally wounded. If the king dies while you are away, Ralur will announce himself as the new king. Should you return after those events, you will be killed as a traitor and who knows what else that evil mind can contrive.”

“And the people of Deor?”

“Jerren, Ralur will lead Deor to destruction should he lead the kingdom now. Deor cannot fall if we hope to have any chance of success in defeating Dezerak.”

Part of him wanted to forgo his rank and title as he had never been a prince to fully accept what it would mean should his father die; a father that had never loved him but expected the best out of him nevertheless. But the sudden desire to fight, to stay alive and not fall to this dark evil that had plagued there world for four-hundred years, surged to life and he gripped the glass so hard his knuckles turned white and he feared the glass would shatter. He took a deep breath. “If we do come to full war, a second Great War, Tiarnan, would you people aid us in the fight.”

The elf looked at him sadly. “Aye, I would if it was in my power but I fear my father would not heed the request of the decended and namesake of Jerren Renis of long ago. Elves hold bitter hatred, as well as the deepest love, Jerren. If it comes to a second war with Diamord, I would do what I can to convince the woodelves to aid you, and send word to the dwarven tribes still loyal to the old world’s past. Arch Mage Talthon would be notified, I assure you, but you cannot count on the elves – only pray that I can convince my father to see the best of my words.”

Jerren managed a weak, lopsided grin. “Stubborn as a woodelf, eh?” he asked, the phrase a common one in Deor.

Tiarnen chuckled and grinned. “Aye, though you do not deal with dwarven smiths!”

“Perhaps the phrase should change to ‘As stubborn as a woodelf king.’ I know the prince and he has shown me more kindness then I deserve in a lifetime.”

“You flatter me,” Tiarnen laughed. “But I will promise you I will fight in whatever way I must if Dezerak asks for a full war. Rerir is weak with the fall of Rand, my friend. We are vaunerable and Dezerak knows this.”

“One more thing,” Jerren said as Tiarnen began to rise from the table. “Last night there was a storm in the north but nothing like I’ve ever seen. Perhaps you could amend what I saw – fire amoung the black clouds.”

Tiarnen paled but kept his calm denemor quite well. “Then my men reported true. I have seen that storm in my youth – only Fyrfac would control it. He has not been seen since the Great War. What would his master realease him for, I wonder. As ambitious as he is, Dezerak uses Fyrfac spearingly.”

“Where did you see him?”

“I only saw the storm. It was over Rune. Dezerak’s mount when the city fell was Fyrfac. If he is using Fyrfac again, then there is something big about to happen. We will be on alert,” Tiarnen said, looking sternly at Jerren with the same determination not to surrender to the Dark Lord that Jerren felt. “Return swiftly to Deor, Prince Jerren. Do what you must. I will have men prepare your mount and assign some to accompany you to Nimat so Terron does not try to fulfill his duty to prince Ralur. My brother, Rilorn will go for sure. He does not fear you or your kind and is loyal to me.” He nodded, giving the briefest salute which Jerren returned more slowly before the elf walked away, his papers neatly tucked under his arm.

When the door closed, Jerren stood and walked to the window, staring below him to the canopy that blacked nearly all of the forest floor which would be dark with the thickness of the foliage.

Mirva suddenly appeared next to him on the floor and hissed softly. It was a sad sound and Jerren found himself kneeling next to her. She let him stroke her head, regarding him with sad eyes that seemed to know exactly what was going on.

“Some animals feel the Dark Lord’s power and fear it,” Antaren said as he came into the room. “Mirva is a serpent, one of Dezerak’s beloved pets. She knows what’s going on and feels your emotions. I’m not pleased with her liking you, however. I told her to guard the door of the room, not sneak in and make herself at home in your bed,” the healer snorted as he placed some jars on the table and fresh linens.

“I feel a bit uncomfortable with her around so no worries.”

Again, Antaren snorted. “I’ll tend to your wound, sir, and leave you what you’ll need for continious care once you have left.” Jerren did not miss the thankfulness that he would be leaving so soon. Jerren hide his return smile. Now that Tiarnen had left him, he would have to be on his guard. He still trusted Jerren’s word and though he had never met Rilorn, he figured that the younger brother of the heir to the Blackwood crown would be just as honorable as his brother.

 

Rilorn was not what Jerren had been expecting when he decended to the forest floor near noon when he was told his party was ready. Grim and quite, the human prince felt as if the entire world was suddenly crashing around him. Never in his life had he expected a true decendent from the Soreath’s line to come forward on the eve of his reign, (which he had hopped wouldn’t happen for years to come). Tiarnen stood with a slender elf of similar stature and height as him when Jerren came into the light of mage orbs, something many elves were taught to do in the forest. He was dark haired with the same dark blue eyes as his brother but with a much more willing smile then some of the others present. They were speaking quietly in there own tounge thus Jerren understood little for his knowlage of the woodelves’ speech was little. When the other elves grew silent at his approach, looking at him werily and with disgust (hatred, too, Jerren though), Tiarnen left his brother to greet Jerren. “My brother, Rilorn. Half, I should add as he acts nothing like me.” Rilorn glared at the jest with a twinkle in the dark eyes but said nothing, a smile tugging his lips. “He will be escorting you to Nimat and I have given him orders to leave once you are safe within your palace no matter what. If you wish to send them back once you’re inside the city, that is up to you but do not drag the elven people into your fight! I would lend you aid if it was mine to lend but this will not please my father as it is.”

“I thank you,” Jerren replied. “For everything. Do you still plan to search for the girl and my squire’s horse?”

Tiarnen nodded as they walked to the waiting horses where his former knights were tied and mounted on there horses. Elven unicorns pranced impaciently nearby, all black with the cosomary black fabric and headstalls causing them to nearly blend in with the darkness. Terron glared at Jerren with unconciled hatred which was ignored as he stopped next to his own black mount. “We will for scouts claim she fled into the woods not long after she passed your knights. It is folly to enter Blackwood unless you are with a guide who knows it well.” When Jerren raised his brow in question to the comment, quietly smirking, Tiarnen returned it with a jestful glare. “Point taken.”

Laughing, Jerren secured the herbal remdie for his shoulder and mounted slowly and carefully as not to tear his wound. Tiarnen held the steeds bridle and nodded to his brother who gave the order to the elves to mount there own steeds. “Those with you,” Tiarnen said, “have pledged to stay with you as along as you keep them but I would not trust them to save you from whatever fate awaits you in Deor. Good luck, Jerren Renis, and may the stars shine on you on your road. Farewell and duaetha.”

“Duaetha,” Jerren returned then looked to Rilorn. “Let us go,” he told the elf.

Grinning, Rilorn set out with Jerren behind him, two elves following Jerren and three guarding the knights of Deor who were being watched like hawks. Leaving the mage orbs that had light the clearning of there departure, Jerren found the blackness of the forest almost suffocated. Rilorn continued to glance back at him, a grin playing on his lips. “This is the outer edge of the forest, your highness,” Rilorn chuckled. “The deeper you go the worse it gets depending on the part of the woods.”

Jerren nodded grimnly. “I have been to your woodland city, prince Rilorn. With your brother. It is not something I will forget easily.”

“I forgot about that but there are darker parts to the forest then those you must have passed through. Have you been to the Firemere? They say a dragon was killed in it and it’s flame still burns the mere.”

“No, and I doubt I want to.”

Rilorn, who was obviously young and more cheerful then his brother, laughed, an odd sound in such a gloomy place. “Humans do amuse me in more ways then one. There beliefe in the dangers of this wood and us and that we live in constant fear of the wood. I’ve been to the Firemere often and have challenged (and been challenged) more then once to cross it. Tiarnen has done it more times then I. I lost count. There is a path through it as clear as day.”

“Perhaps to you,” Jerren replied lightly, lifing an eyebrow at him. “Do elves have the same political battles as we do? A court of lords and vassels, perhaps? I would think there would be some drama.”

“Ocassionally,” Rilorn replied as they stepped onto another trail that seemed to be growing lighter as they walked toward the dim light at the end. Jerren began to relax at the sight of the way out. “Thranorn has been a good, fair king even if Tiar and I do not agree at times but we are his sons, I suppose, and he expects things out of us. Our people love Thranorn and my brother and fear nothing, not even the wood.”

Jerren nodded, watching the light ahead of them. “You call your father by his name. Is that common of elves or…”

“No but…well that is not something for you to know. I respect my father, nothing more.”

They turned suddenly and the path was darker then the first they had travled. Rilorn noticed his look of confusion and grinned. “Ah, you thought that was the path leading out, didn’t you? That leads to a maze of which few escape. The light is a lure. The Outer Edge of Blackwood is fulled with such traps, most set by faes and other mischvious creatures. The worst are set by gnomes!”

After that, Jerren said nothing for he settled into his own thoughts, thinking to the men that were following him and what traps could still be hidden for him in Nimat. It was obvious that prince Ralur had planned this attempt for years and with help from higher sources. There would be many aiding him from within, some he probably thought were close friends and allies. There was also the problem of his father should he fall for the trap in the north of the invading army. He felt like a fool for being caught in the trap. Yet he had not been killed like Ralur had planned, a plan that Jerren now saw clearly. He was to die in the wilderness and Terron would have returned bearing his body for burial claiming they had been attacked and raided – loosing half of his party would assure the assumption that they were ambushed as well as Sir Banall’s wounds would prove the theory. With Jerren dead, the king would return from the border either dead or wounded. If King Jandoran returned wounded it wouldn’t be hard to disguise a poisen death. Jerren frowned, his emotional rages causing him to clench the reins so hard the black tossed its head in frustration.

Rilorn called a halt as soon as they had reached the edges of Blackwood. Before them lay a grassy plain that lay before the Pass of Duian. A rose colored sun lay over the plain while waves of long grass swayed in the evening breeze. Jerren stared at it, feeling a faulse sense of security wash over him. Was this what Rerir was suppose to be like – free and peaceful like this grassland? He sighed, glancing northward. There was no storm that he could see tonight and he was thankful. Dismounting, Jerren tethered his horse with the black unicorns and other steads of the knights. He rolled out his own sleeping bag and let the elves tend to things for the fire and his men. Well, Ralur’s men. None of them were very faithful to him. All he could trust now was the elves and Tiarnen’s word that they would be his. Pulling out a slender ornate pipe, he smoked quietly while Rilorn and an older elf named Kaiand spoke softly in elvish. They nodded, saying something softly as parting and Kaiand went to tend to somethings while Rilorn walked purposefully to Jerren, making a face at the pipe.

“There is smoke from the fire, cannot that be enough?”

Chuckling and shaking his head slightly, Jerren put out the pipe and Rilorn sat down next to him. “I was jesting but I do appreciate the clean air. You’ve been quite for much of the journey today.”

“I have many things to consider once we return to Nimat, Rilorn. Much of which I am uncertain for I know what was planned but not what has happened.”

“Tiar said little of what you’re going to do, which upsets Kaiand as we are marching of to the same fate as you, perhaps. Would you like to enlighten me. Perhaps I can offer some insite even if I am accused of being to young to know better.”

Jerren snorted. “You’re older then me!”

The black-haired elf chuckled and grinned merrily. “Well, yes, but I am probably younger then you by my people’s standards.”

“Then why does your brother send you with me?”

Rilorn shrugged. “Not certain but he most likely choose men that would not try to kill you as your knights did,” and he glared in there direction. “I wish my brother had killed them rather then let them live. Sir Terron is already guilty of murder, from what I hear. Your brother, Tiarnen said, was killed at his hands.”

Cold rage shimmered to Jerren’s eyes and he glared at the uncomfortable Terron. “I makes sense,” he whispered. “Jerel was killed in a ‘hunting’ accident.”

Streaching out on the damp grass, Rilorn gazed up at the stares. “Yes. My brother tells me things I probably shouldn’t know. He says times are too dark to let the young be ignorant of what is going on in the world.”

“Everything is darker, “ Kaiand replied glumbly as he joined the two. His golden haired, like Tiarnen but lighter and thicker, cascaded only to his shoulders. In the dark and firelight, his eyes were undetermined and his features looked more streached and thin then Jerren knew they were. “If a storm with fire in the sky was seen and Fyrfac was truly let out, things have taken a turn for the worst.”

“There was a bright light of white,” Jerren murmured. “Like lightning but far brighter, lighting the entire sky where the clouds touched it. After that, it retreated. Could there have been a force able to counter Fyrfac?”

Kaiand shook his head. “Nay, not to the knowlage of any being on this earth.”

“Gil says that Ilranis could.”

“Ilranis?”

“The silver stallion men call Solistic. I believe Deorian’s call him Khaian, the Phantom.”

Jerren smiled at that. “Yes, I have heard of his powers over strange things. He runs wherever he wishes, not to mention stealing mares who, if found, are in foal or with a colt at there heals. They sell for high prices in Nimat.”

“We buy those colts when we can,” Kaiand replied with a smile. “Ilranis’ bloodline is pure and ancient. He may enjoy stealing mares, either horse or unicorn, and trying to build a herd but he should run to Anaas where he would be safe and continue his bloodline true. None have been able to catch him to tell him. Or, if they have, to convince him. He’s determined to stay in Tir Asken, for whatever erason that keeps him roaming here.”

“What do you know of him, save his beauty and power?” Jerren asked, taking a piece of dried jerky from Rilorn who had begun to rummage through his sack while the elder elf did all the talking.

“He was bred in Tirsune by kings. I have seen him and he has a brand marking him of the royal stables in Tirsune. Other then that, Ilranis is a mystry from a past we know so little about.”

Rilorn was thoughtfully nibbling on his jerky when he spoke. “Ilranis doesn’t solve your problem, my lord,” he said, causing Jerren to wince at a title he often liked. Tiarnen seemed to be the only one that called him by his name rather then a title. “I think that since we’re technically involved in this we should decide what were going to do.”

Kaiand nodded. “Yes.”

The prince frowned, still feeling helpless. At least he wasn’t alone in his decisions and he thanked the stars silently that Tiarnen was a friend. “I do not know Ranul as well as I should thus I cannot guess his motives nor what he would do if I was to return to Nimat alive with his knights in tow.”

The young elf grinned wickedly. “Perhaps we should keep you dead. Drop you off in the city somewhere and let you spy and find stuff out.”

“That would be foolish,” Kaiand replied glumly. “Yet it does hold merit. In truth, I advise you to return to the palace imedietly and prevent this rouge from even getting close enough to breath on the throne. If that is you intentions.”

“Tiarnen advised me to hold my title and keep it no matter what. If he is right and a war is coming, then Deor will need to stand. Ranul is a foolish, spoiled brat. If full war comes to my land it will perish and all those in it. I intend to fight, for both. I would rather die fighting then a coward and an idot.”

Rilorn nodded. “Yes, we feel the same. I wish Thranorn wasn’t such a fool when it comes to the entire world and not just our wood.”

“For years we had hoped aid would come form some hidden sorce,” Kaiand said softly. “Or that some piece of lost knowlage would be revealed to end the evil that Dezerak has spread. We have so little left of even the ballads and those that remain are meaningless in there entertiy.”

“You know, perhaps we should ask Terron about your problem in Nimat. He might have a better clue as to what our foolish prince-boy I planning.”

Jerren scowled. “No, I need to think about this. It’s a three day’s ride from here to Nimat. I need sleep. I need to think.” He gave a ragged sigh and left the two elves to look at each other with a knowing yet concerned look. Laying on his blanket, Jerren gazed into the clear night sky, falling asleep in a short time despite the fear rising in his gut.

e V f

 “You’re wounds are mending nicely,” Selynd said as she finished dressing Selin’s wound. “I’ll let you move about to day if you’re feeling up to it. But you will mind your wound. I’ll not have you tearing those ugly faces again!”

Selin managed a smile as the woman gave him a warning look and promply departed. They had asked for a name the second day he had woke. Sel, he told them and though they did not seem satisfied with the simple name they went by it. Ilranis was still in the stable though he would leave the barn and disappear often into the forest, day or night. He would return when he wished. Bral had not returned since his first visit. His father said he was a blacksmith and often busy with orders or his own hobby of restorning old weapons he found in the Pass of Morh. This intrigued Selin for it showed the young man was both interested and probably knowlage able in the history of that Pass. Anouther reason he was thankful he had used ‘Sel’ rather then Selin.

Mirell brought a meal which he ate almost before she left the room. Nothing had ever tasted better then a real meal – eggs and bacon in simple quantities he almost rued for his stomach wanted more by the time he had finished. Once his plate was cleaned, he slowly rose and walked to the window of his room. Pushing aside the curtains, he stared into the forest still hung with the morning mist. He saw Ilranis grazing peacefully, nearly blending in to the fog that made him more sereal then he was. Lifting his head, he turned to look directly at Selin, arching his head. Concern and questions filled his mind and Selin smiled, returning his response with feelings of healing as well as thanks. Ilranis snorted but Selin felt his smile as he returned to his own morning meal.

A knock on the door nearly startled him yet he did not jump thankfully. His wounds were still fragile. “Come in,” Selin replied and Bral slipped into the bedroom carrying two wooden cases, one longer then his forearm and another less then half the size of the first. He also balanced a book on top of them. Selin raised an eyebrow as the young man set them on the bed, seeming out of breath before returning to the door and closing it. He smiled rather shyly at Selin’s quirked eyebrow.

Bral stood defiantly. “I know there is more to you then you’re letting on,” he said, crossing his arms. “But I’ll let you keep your secerets for now.”

The elf nodded. “Thank you.”

Taken aback by the remark, spoken honestly and with such a regalness, Bral nearly balked. “My father told you about my hobby, right?” Selin nodded in acknowlagement as he came to sit on the bed slowly and carefully. “Well, I noticed you know about the true origin of Solistic – Ilranis, I should say. I remembered these. I found them a few years ago. I thought you might want to see them.” Bral opened each wooden case, pulled away the linens that bound the two blades and showed them to a rather skeptical Selin who looked at them and froze. “Beautiful, are they not?” Bral asked proudly.

“Indeed. You know of there origins or do you plan on asking me that?”

The blacksmith studied him hard. “No, I know nothing of them save they are royaly made and that they bear the crest of Tirsune.”

“You are correct in both.”

Bral waited but Selin said no more so he took a deep breath and continued. “Sel is an unsualle name for an elf,” he said softly. “A nick name perhaps. A shortened version of Selin?” When the elf’s eyes remained cold and inpassionate he grew nervous. “I know the story of the Battle of Morh, at least that of what the minstrals sing.”

“Tell me this ballad,” Selin said, his voice laced with a sharp edge that Bral realized quickly. He gulped. “You may speak it if you know the song not.”

Taking a deep breath, Bral was silent for a moment before beginning softly the song he knew far to well:

 

Morning light brings the blood red sun to field

Banners reside in silent awakening

A day meant for victory of sword and shield

Upon a field of thousands sleeping.

A sentry cry silence at the battle dawning.

 

Dark fly the arrows in the breaking day

From the peaks fowl cries arise

Trumpets answer the call of one from the fray

Within the hour a blood sun of war rises

Over a field turned red as dying cries.

 

Drums sound in clouds above as thunder rolls

From the front a single rider flees

To the field of empty prayer and warm coals

A star falls as even weaves

Above the forgotten battlefield of yestereve.

 

Battle cries, wounded men fight till dawn

Beneath the cliffs of the Pass of Morh

Magic against steel as the last line is drawn

Sheilds of kings stand tall once more

Prepare to die for land of song and lore.

 

The last to stand let silver trumpets sound

Hearts race to the aryor war beat

Enemy charge and blood stains the ground

Hope fails when great men meet

On the battle field to there swift defeat.

 

The black clouds roll and thunder fades away

Rain falls over the fields now dead

Into shadow of a land forever gray

Songs of heroes that today are read

Till green fields remember the tales unsaid.

 

Selin was silent when Bral nearly faultered in his last note. They remained thus for quite some time. Slowly, his eyes dark, the elf rose and returned to the window while Bral watched him, his heart racing.

“You wonder if I stood in that battle, don’t you, Bral Akerlen. You wonder if there is truth to it. Truth to any of the hope that lies within the end of the song.” He turned to Bral who stared at him with his mouth partially open. “I disagree with the song, Bral Akerlen,” the elf replied with cold venom as his eyes flashed with anger and his hands clenched at his sides. “Yes, Bral, I was there that fateful day when we woke, the enemy surrounding us and attacking, picking us off like we were nothing but corn in a field. We were betrayed, left alone as a sacrifice to the Dark Lord, some killed and some taken as prisoners back to Slagent to rot our lives to an end. I was there and stood in the last rally to hold the Pass only to be swept away and lost with the rest of my kin.”

“Then why does the ballad sing differently? Men speak of no such betrayal!”

“The song speaks of glory and battle, Bral. It was written by men who wanted to glorify the battle so that it would live on as a great moment of humans leadership. Jesparan Renis was a fool. His trust was faulse. I thank your family for there aid but men have betrayed me, and the elven race, beyond repair.”

There was silence and Bral turned his gaze to the floor while Selin returned to watch Ilranis who had moved out behind the barn, his ears turned toward the house. Occasinally he would lift his head and look toward Selin, revealing no emotions. Finally, Selin spoke, his voice less harsh, almost surenduring. “You are a wise man to figure these things out on your own. Saryon-Aes’Selin is my name. That is my sword, heirloom of my father’s house, and my dagger from my mother’s side. I bred Ilranis myself.” He turned to Bral who’s eyes had widened in shock and amazement. “Fyrfac himself was my attacker in the Pass. Because he will not stop hunting me, I must leave as soon as I can. I will not put your family in greater danger because of me.”

Bral stood, facing him. “Where will you go?”

“Thyrayyah. It is my guess that the Seer Emger Ronan heads that way as well. He left me before I entered the Pass on a mission only he knows. It is his way to desert those in need as the humans in the Great War did.”

Nodding, the young man reached into the box contanting his dagger. With loving fingers, Bral examined the blade, returned to it former glory with tender hands and a master’s touch. This pleased Selin’s heart and he managed an amused smile. “I will return them to you, if you wish. You will need weapons. I think your own will do you better then anything else.”

Part of him wanted to say no while he knew that his escape could launch more then a hunt for an elven prince. War, he was sure, is what caused Emger to desert him so suddenly. Of course, the slippery Seer could run off for whatever reason he desired so important thus he almost rebuked the thought. Ilranis, however, seemed much more alert and tense then he should and Selin doubted it was all atribuited to Fyrfac’s immentent return to the hunt.

In a few days he could leave – or would leave. Salynd may have a conniption over his departure but he knew better then to keep the Seer waiting. He would head to Thyarayyah, taking the river as his guide as to avoid confrontation with the winged wolf packs that no doubt roamed in the south still. Ilranis’ speed was all that he had.

“Will you take me with you?”

Breaking out of his planning, Selin stared at Bral. “Pardon?”

The young man stood, taking a deep breath as he did so. “Take me with, Selin. I know the south and I’m sure it has changed since you last traveled it.”

Selin scowled. “You have a family here, do you not?”

“Nothing save a wife I find most annoying and barren to all but her ability to irate me so. All my life I’ve dreamed of a day to be more then a blacksmith. I understand your distrust in humans but if you leave me behind I am sure to follow.”

“Ilranis’ speed is equal to that of the wind, Bral. No steed of yours could keep up with him even in a flat out run.”

Bral frowned, determination still in his features. “I’ll follow nonetheless.”

“You would be a fool to do so,” Selin said coldly. “Now leave me Bral. I seek my rest.”

The young man picked up his things and left, his back ridgid and his manner cool yet Selin sensed the seething anger in him as he deposited the table and left, nearly slamming the door behind him. He was about to move away from the window when Ilranis’ nose pushed at the dirty glass. The elf opened it and the aryor thrust his nose inside and sniffed him. Fear registered through his body and he already felt the change in the wind and the smell of a storm – dry and unyielding of any moisture. His blood ran cold and he closed his eyes even as his wounds from Fyrfac flared up and he reached over to rub is gently with his strong arm. “Yes, my friend. Tonight we must leave.” He took a deep breath and looked at the door. “But we must wait till dark.”

Ilranis snorted before withdrawing his head and walking only a few feet away from the window – he was on guard and even if he had to chew to the roots of the grass he wasn’t going very far! Selin smiled then closed the window and returned to the bed to rest while he could, willing his body to mend quickly and strong so that in the cover of darkness, he could lead Fyrfac away from the few humans he could feel graditude for.

 

The moonlight did not shine through the window when Selin woke to little pricks along his skin. He jumped and batted at one until he realized what they were. He glared at the covered window where he knew Ilranis was sending sparks to attack him so he would wake. “I’m up, I’m up!” he growled to the aryor. He heard a satisfied snort and sighed. His chest still hurt as did his leg, a dull ache now. Slowly, he rose and quietly began to gather a few things in the dark. He was stuffing things into a bag when he caught sight of the two boxes that Bral had left. He went still. For a few moments he stood, staring at the boxes, his eyes dark in consideration. They were, after all, his daggers.

Nimble fingers slowly open the top box and pulls out the Emgerion House dragon dagger – Lathsul was it’s name. Sel fitted his hand easily onto the pommel and held it up in the darkness. “Dragon Spell,” he whispered to the dagger as his emotions swayed and his heart clenched. “It’s been a long time…”

Fighting back the memories and the pain of four hundred years in the foulest pit Dezerak could find, Selin finally decided on his fate. Taking the two blades from there boxes, he wrapped them into a blanket and secured them with the other things he intended to take. He didn’t bother with medical for he knew the plants that grew in the north, most had spread from Sirannon years before Selin had been born. He did take extra linens just in case.

Not daring to take the door, Selin opened the bedroom window and slipped out of it, tossing his bundles outside first, letting them fall softly to the ground where Ilranis would walk over inquisitively and sniff them before the elf nearly landed on his nose. Whispering a soft scold in elvish, Selin quickly picked up his things and ran toward the barn with Ilranis trotting after him on silent hooves against the dew laden grass.

Ilranis was skittish, a feeling that told Selin to hurry even when he felt the gently tug on his mind and heart to hurry. His blood was pounding, making his wounds more noticeable as he searched for some rope.

Then the wind began to howl, loud and errily over the sturdy barn. A gust hit the side and shook it. Ilranis arched his neck and began to paw the ground. A chill settled over Selin’s skin as he grabbed a rope and began to latch his baggage into a single sling that could settle over Ilranis’ whithers – or so he hoped when he was tying them. His hands were shaking – his chest wounds were burning.

“Selin!”

He looked up as Bral stumbled into the barn, his hair a mess and cloak wrapped around his legs in an odd way. “Bral!”

“Oh, for once knock it off! Here, I grabbed you this and as much food as I could from my wife’s store. And I grabbed these. They fit your weapons. You did take them, right?”

Selin only glared at him for a moment then snachted the sheaths from his hand. “What was that book for, anyway?” He tied the sheaths to his packages and found another rope that he quickly fitted as a makeshift bridle for Ilranis.

“You grabbed that?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll tell you later. I think we should get a move on. And I am coming with…”

Selin winced and clutched his wound, hissing through his teeth even as Ilranis’ horn glowed white in the dark barn. “Get to your horse. Run south, toward the river.”

Bral, noticing the strange behavior of both and the thunder rumbling over the barn, didn’t need to be told twice. He ran from the barn and vaulted to his skittish mount, a part-bred aryor he had bought that day with every last asirin he had just so he had a chance to keep up with Solistic. Flicking the reins along the gelding’s rump, he raced for the river, his skin crawling with goose flesh. When he looked back at the barn, he saw a silver streak in the lightning and a figure hunched low over the withers. Damn! That stallion was fast!

“Part aryor?” Selin asked as he drew closer, Ilranis coming in slower (much slower Bral thought). “Wiser then I would have thought you are. I hope it likes to run! Maylee fashael, Ilranis!”

The silver stallion snorted, laying his ears back at the gelding who tossed his head once before the silver bounded away into the stormy night. Bral nearly fell from the saddle when it took off, bearly keeping up with the fleet-footed Ilranis.

Above them, the storm raged though no rain fell. Fire flashed in the sky briefly, announcing to Selin that Fyrfac indeed lead this storm. He did not know where to run and could only hope that the evil creature would leave the Akerlen family alone with him gone. The silken mane flew over his skin as he leaned over the stallions back as if he could blend in with the aryor should Fyrfac pass them by.

It was to both men’s surprise that they suddenly came upon a village on the outskirts of the forest. There were few in the streets as the two raced into the village – right into the stableyard of an inn.

“Ilranis!”

“Damn you, elf! Get inside!”

Emger Ronan leapt from the shadows of the stable and growled at him. As the men dismounted, Selin muffling his yelp of pain and Bral nearly falling out of the saddle in his fear, Emger and Ilranis trotted into the stable with the men and other steed close behind. In the darkness of the stable, they huddled as the storm raged outside, causing other horses housed there to prance and snort. Ilranis’ dark eyes were trained to the sky outside, every nerve in his body tense but his horn was not glowing.

It was the glare of the wolf that Selin found the most disturbing, not Ilranis’ control over his magic.

“I’ve been here for nearly a week, you dolt! What took you so long? And now you drag another into this mess!” His muzzle pointed to a dumbfounded Bral. “Explain, Master elf, and make this quick!”

“I was attacked,” Selin hissed at the wolf, and he tore his shirt away to reveale the unhealed scars still wrapped in linens. “Fyrfac caught up with me in the Pass of Morh. Ilranis fought him off, nearly killing him, and then brought me to Bral’s family. I just escaped, for your information, you overbearing Seer!”

“A Seer?” Bral squeaked, but he was ignored.

Emger bared his fangs slightly. Selin doubted that Ilranis’ tail swiped over the wolf’s face on accident. “Well, you took long enough getting here.”

“I was heading for the river,” Selin snapped.

“Then it’s a good thing the aryor are smarter then elves!”

When Selin tried to give a retort, Bral made a squeak and huddled closer to the wall. Ilranis backed up as if shielding those behind (and underneath in Emger’s case), from what Bral had seen. Selin did not see the shadow pass over them. He felt it and his scar burned as Fyrfac flew over head on silent, deadly wings. Emger lay crouched in the hay, his ears back in fear and annoyance – two traits that Selin knew worked hand-in-hand with the wolven Seer. Suddenly, Ilranis tossed his head and snorted.

“I’m not staying at the inn tonight,” Selin snapped, knowing that (for now), the danger has passed.

“No,” Emger replied, sarcasim still laced in his voice but he was calm and serious. “No, we must go now, while he heads toward Khayr Rukan. Can you see it from here? We’re only miles from the Outer Wall.”

Selin stood and his eyes, sharp as a wolfs, looked into the distance and saw the white washed walls of Khayr Rukan. His throat tighted. “This village was built…”

“Yes, where Jesparan made his camp then left you to die,” Emger said, never looking at the elf who’s eyes returned to the angry, hurt Selin that had much to hate and fear. Bral blinked.

“That is not how humans sing the ballad,” he said, confused. “He went south in hopes to…”

The Seer snorted, a growl low in his throat. “Jesparan Renis is a fool. Too young and too inexperienced to lead an army into battle. Nor did he listen to his supirours when making his decisions. He judged and judged wrong the strength of the Elven army and did not think that the enemy would try to anialate the elves rather then give them a chance to escape.”

“He sent me no message of his inentons,” Selin mused in a growl. “If I had known his plans…”

“The black clouds roll and thunder fades away

Rain falls over the fields now dead

Into shadow of a land forever gray

Songs of heroes that today are read

Till green fields remember the tales unsaid.

The Lay of the Morh,” Emger said, his eyes turning to Selin as he finished reciting the song’s last verse. “The last verses that speak of hope that Jesparan held when he slipped into the night and utterly lost this world to the Darkness, not to mention the elven race in Sirannon.” Shaking his head, the Seer sighed.

“I’ve always pondered the last line,” Bral mused, rising and leaning on his horse. “ ‘Till green fields remember…’”

“A riddle, if Emger wrote it,” Selin muttered, also pondering the meaning.

The wolf smirked at the elf. “Very good, my young pupil! Songs are all about riddles and ballads are full of them. That one is simple and that event happened a week ago!”

Bral stared at him then blinked. “Huh?”

Selin’s face slowly began to smile as he went to Ilranis’ strong, sleek shoulder. “Till I escaped, returning through the Pass of Morh and it remembered what actually happened rather then the tales men spin.”

Snorting, Emger glared at him. “Men speak the truth, Selin. Jesparan did not intend for the elven army to be anialated or for Sirannon to fall so quickly into Dezerak’s grasp. But, it is the present that we need to focus on. Did you bring any food, blacksmith? He needs some and don’t let him say no.”

Jumping up with a rather startled cry, Bral began to rummage through his pack and pulled out some jerky and thin bread cakes and gave them to Selin who ate them without argument. Emger nosed around in the hay before laying down. The two unicorns began to eat lazily at the bedding. “You left me why?”

“To get information,” Emger replied. “And old student of mine was relaying a message that he thought I should hear.” Selin only stared at him until he continued. “High Alpha Alynn Easal was retporting the fall of Rand. It fell two weeks ago and refugees are fleeing south toward either Thyrayyah or Nimat, where Jesparan’s decendents still live.” Selin scowled at that and snorted. “But it was one refugee in particular he told me about – he said he encounted a girl with innate magic.”

“That’s not unusall,” Bral said suddenly. Then looked at the other two when silence fell over the group. “Is it?”

Emger shook his head. “No, not this strong. His pack found her and when she fought back, even the pack joined in an attack was no good. Alynn let her go. Either she’s feircly determined to live or she’s one very powerful, untrained mage. The later is dangerous for control is a large part of using magic. I met with one of Alynn’s messagers who had also come to speak with me on news from Nimat. I have had the High Alpha keep tabs on Jerren Renis, the prince and heir of the throne in Deor.”

“Why? Is he in danger?” Bral asked.

“In truth, grave danger,” Emger said softly. “But we will do nothing for prince Jerren as he has allies in an unlikely, powerful place that will aid him well enough. Prince Tiarnen of Blackwood befriend him long ago and does not agree with his father, and his people’s, uncaring attidute for the men of Deor. Much is in disorder.”

“Like it was four-hunderd years ago,” Selin mused, finishing his meal and sighing as he leaned back. “So, our perfect Seer, tell us. What are we going to do?”

Emger looked into the night through Ilranis’ legs. The storm has passed, now thundering over Khayr Rukan. “Come. We must ride while he has turned away from us.”

Scowling over the fact his question was unanswered, Selin rose but spared enough time to secure his weapons on his belt before mounting Ilranis and following the others into the night and back into the streets of the outlaying village near Khayr Rukan.

A dark unsettling night lay before them once they passed the gates to the village. Emger was in the lead, a shadowy gray form fleeting before them as the horses kept up, all three animals keeping to an even pace should there be a need for sudden speed. The trees grew thicker again and Selin had to duck carefully a number of times or be toppled off the stallions back. Both were calm, despite Emger’s constant alert, his ears swiveling often to the city of Khayr Rukan. Even through the trees, they could see the explosions that Fyrfac pounded his master’s prized treasure with. Only Bral and Emger knew the state of the High King’s ancient home that was in such a disarray and worth nothing more then rubble and stone. Foul creatures controlled that city now and when one could escape it was a hard time in getting out. The palace itself, sitting proudly still on the cliffs above the river the men called Aspermire, was nothing more then a battered piece of a past that once was.

“We’ve ridden for hours,” grumbled Bral much later when they had slowed to a walk, the storm raging miles behind them. “Are you sure we can’t stop? Just for a moment. I’m sure the horses need to rest…” Ilranis snorted and glared at the unhappy man even while the chestnut mount Bral rode sighed, agreeing with the stallion.

“The aryor were bred for stamina as well as speed,” Selin replied calmly. “Yet once we find the river I do ask for a short rest to tend my wounds, Emger.”

The wolf didn’t say anything as he padded along on silent paws, his manner now relaxed and tonge lolling form his mouth. Selin glared at the feather covered back before going to rub his side slightly. “Damn wolf,” he growled. He glaned at Bral a moment before turning his sharp eyes toward the road ahead, not to mention Emger’s discouraging back. The man, however, looked as if he would fall asleep in any moment yet managed to stay away, letting trusting the gelding to follow there wolven leader to wherever they were going.

Running water glistened between the rocky bank and the forest gave way to the Aspermire on the edge of the forest which thinned as they grew closer. Bral gave the wolf a glare before dismounting and leading his horse to the water to drink. With a groan, Selin slid from Ilranis’ side and pulled off the packages to let the aryor find some grass along the bank. Emger leapt onto a rock and looked upriver. “Fyrfac burns the city in search of you,” he said, not looking at Selin when the elf collapsed next to a huge bolder near the river.

“Good. There will be less evil minions of Dezerak to bother us,” Bral snorted as he too, fell to the ground and leaned against a rock, watching the wolf with a frighted look, betraying his mistrust for the Seer.

With a swift movement, Emger left the rock and landed between the alcove they had choose next to the river for the night. “I’ll give you and your mounts a few moments rest,” he said, walking to the river and placing a paw into the cool waters. “You choose to come with Selin, Bral Akerlen, but you should have thought out what it would mean to be a companion of Selin ere you departed. He is a hunted man and Dezerak knows what could happen if he is left out too long.”

The elf frowned and looked at him. “And what would that be?”

Even in the darkness where no moon shone, Emger’s eyes twinkled as he turned to regard Selin with a canine grin. “War,” he answered simply before lowering his muzzle to the running water and began to lap it up with a salmon pink tounge.

“I have no intention of starting a war,” Selin snapped, pulling off his shirt and slowly unwinding the linens from his wounds. “I have no army and if there is one to be found, and men willing to fight for our soiled piece of earth, we would surly lose,” he said stiffly.

Emger finished his drink before coming to join them, choosing to lay at the entrance of there sanctuary rather then by the river. He watched Selin tend his wounds and Bral slowly fall into slumber. Once the man’s breathing had slowed, Emger looked hard at the former prince, sending prickles through Selin’s skin and down the rest of his body.

“Is that really what you wanted to do when you escaped, Selin? Run and keep running until he finally caught you and the last hope of this world failed. I think not and you know it just the same.”

“I felt a tug, an urging to try one last time,” Selin snapped, his voice lowered so it was harsh. “I wanted out of there. Nothing more.”

“Humans are not the only one that seeks revenge, Selin. We are all mortal here, wether we live for a century or for a milennina or two. It was Ilranis urging you to escape, to get out of Slagent. Did you not notice he was right behind me when I came to your rescue? He was coming for you for he travels many places in Rerir and learning much from men and elves alike. The dwarves of Ennyndor have seen him – he is known as the Phantom by all races for he can disappear without a trace. Solistic, Khaian and Makkahel are all his names for none know who he is save that he comes to the aid of those in need. He, like yourself, has a hefty price on his head for the Dark Lord is no fool and knows of the marking that he bears means he belongs to your House.

“Selin is well known in Deor, the last free realm of this world. I, too, have made my own travels south and know of the struggle that that kingdom faces and has faced since Jesparen’s son was brought to rule the last stronghold of men. Over the years, Deor has shrunk till only a tiny portions remains. There have been good kings, and bad. This is a time for a king about to lose his realm if he dies. Outside the borders there are the skirmishes with orc bands and trolls. Dark Wolves hunt with no regard to boundaries and gnomes have become wicked creatures living on the misery of others.” He saw Selin blink in memory of a small, annoying companion he had once had on his journey with Jesparan. Vorun. The name was a bit alien to him now. He had almost forgotten about the knee-high fellow that had clung to Jesparan’s sack most of the journey, only to vanish when the battle started. Emger’s voice returned him to the present almost unwillingly.

“I heard more information at the Broken Hand,” the wolf said. “Prince Jerren Renis was sent to get help from the dwarves three weeks ago.”

The elf studied him hard for a moment. “Did he succeed?”

“Nay, he did not though it was known that he wouldn’t. The order did not come from his father but one trying to take the throne from him – the rightful decendents of the lord of Nimat.”

“Fair enough, in my mind.”

Emger growled. “Fool! You think only of your pain an misery and not the picture that faces us.”

“Well, enlighten me,” Selin snapped. “I asked you ere we departed the village of what our path was not to be and you failed to tell me thus. Now, you only speak of meaningless things that still do not answer my question.”

With nothing but the rushing water behind them, the silence that dragged on between them was nearly unbearable. Ilranis came from his grazing to woof into Emger’s coat before moving to Selin and hovering protectively over him. “Get some sleep.” And Emger rose and walked into the darkness of the forest. Ilranis only snorted after him, relived that the tension had vanished. He hated tension in a time of mounting tension.

Selin was in a rage. The damn wolf knew nothing of hell. He had the scars to prove it, inside and out. He was sick from malnatriton, sick from the wounds he suffered, and sick of thinking he should be fighting for something that was unreachable. In the first few years, he had tried to escape, to race back and regroup the remaining army and strick back in revenge. But time had slowly decayed all those boyish feelings of glory and honor until only bitter anger remained. Regret for pulling his entire nation into a war that had them all killed. He should have died in Slagent, not running to a safe haven that would most likely not last. Dezerak had too much in his control. Rand had fallen. If Deor was the last realm, the last place of hope then all was lost.

Ilranis’s nose butted him. He knew what the stallion was trying to tell him. To sleep. To rest. A few hours, that was all the rotten, no good winged wolf was giving them to rest before they had to run again. He didn’t want to run. He didn’t want to hide and wait. He wanted…

Selin’s head hit the rock behind him and he closed his eyes, blocking out the stars above and the thin waning moon in the sky. He didn’t know what he wanted. But he was sure that he wouldn’t be made a fool again. Then, an old voice floated to him from the strands of time and he bit his lip.

“ When all lostes, make anewes!”

Vorun had told him that but the certimstances hadn’t been as dire as they were now. Now, the entire world was dark, lost to the time that had destroyed it.

“Fear of the future keeps one from doing what they must. Fear of failing and fear of getting hurt also make those that could fight and win from doing so.”

Mesi’Kann, his bravest companion and most loyal friend! He had told Jesparan that ere the battle had begun. Dragging his knees to his face, he wrapped his arms around them and wept until he fell asleep, the lapping of the water causing him to drift into dreams and nightmares merged together.

eVI f

Morning and night had merged and she had no way of keeping track of time. Khayrael felt lost and hopless within the woods she had entered – how many hours ago? She was trying to make the meger supplies the squire had carried last until she found civilization. Having heard stories of the Blackwood elves she wasn’t sure she wanted to met up with them. She had named the lithe bay gelding Sicaol, after her puppy she had lost a year ago. He was well trained and responded to her well. Knowing that a war horse would be fighting her the entire way she was glad he was nothing more then a squires mount.

The forest was pitch black and the sounds were as creepy. The heat was nearly unbearable which almost shocked her as it was late November. She had shed down to her thin shirt, tying the cloak she had found in a pack, around her waist like a sash. She was tired and overly crabby. Sicaol seemed skittish in the dark forest but had no such luck convincing her to get off or that anything they had seen had actually tried to kill them. Perhaps the tales of Blackwood were false. Perhaps it was just a forest like the one she had played in at home near her house.

Something screeched. It wasn’t human, that was for sure. Sicaol jumped, his entire body trembling. Her voice dropping to a soothing tone, Khayrael tried to comfort the bay while gathering her own wits. How long has she been lost in this stupid forest? Why has she run into it like some fool knowing full well it was hardly the safest route to her destination? How could she be so stupid?!

Khayrael kicked the gelding into a trot despite the thick foliage even as she saw a flash of light – like eyes – off to her right; then her left. The screech was heard again and she winced. What the hell was that?

As suddenly as the trail had vanished from her earlier, another one opened up. “Go, Si, go!” She leaned over the black mane and let the gelding run as fast as it could through the still thickly blocked trail. It was then that the screeches became hysterical laughter all around them. Sicaol suddenly came to skidding halt and reared, tossing his head and stricking out with his hooves before Khayrael could get him to clam down so she could look. She saw absolutely nothing.

She had been scared when the Dark Lords’ army had come rushing in from the night to slaughter her village. She had been scared and lonely on her journey since that night, and she had been scared when she had stole the horse from the men on the plains. But now, as she felt the precense of something vile and deadly coming toward her she was simply terrified that she would never get out of here alive.

Sicaol bolted and she screamed as the horse went headlong into the black woods, branches slapping her in the face, hands and legs even when she leaned low over the withers, her legs pressed as tightly as she could around his heaving sides. “Sicaol! Whoa! Please!” But the reins were usless. Sicaol was scared out of his wits and nothing would stop him. Just as she thought she would be safer jumping off as soon as she saw an opening, which would be hard in this black infested forest, her right leg smashed into something and she lost her balance. After that, she remembered falling and pain, sharp pain that exploded in her head in a blinding flash of light before the black forest melted into the blackness of her mind and she remembered nothing else.

 

Tiarnen sat on his black stallion in front of the five men that were accompanying him back from the border. It had been two days since he had sent Rilorn with Jerren back to Nimat and his mood hadn’t improved much since then. They were now playing a dangerous game, one his father would surly lash him for. He had probably overstepped his bounds in sending out the elves with Jerren. His best friend, Gilanel (known as Gil by most), was close to the king but supported Tiarnen’s decision. War called for drastic messures and if they were coming close to one only a fool would be caught unprepared. Gilanel had taken over his the border for a time while Tiarnen returned home to Khaore, the city the elves had built close to the feet of the Ennyndor mountain range that had been covered by the woods. Here, the forest was not as dark and compressed as it was in other areas of the wood. There entire city was tiered. A natural road through the trees made it possible to built houses as well as protection. Log houses, many of them made for beauty as well as durability, rose along the street until one reached the top. The kings palace was built of huge windows, logs and stone, with parts of it carved into the stone itself. The armory, stables, dungouns and kitchens were also nestled into the cavernous system inside the mountain. In case of an attack, which was highly unlikely with enough feared little critters running around in the forest, the king could saftley pull his people into the caverns and close the stone doors, each controlled by magic and effectively the width of five men, shoulder to shoulder.

“Sounds like the tesvin are out tonight,” one of his men growled when the shrieking laughter peeled out in the distance to there left. “I hope they leave us alone.”

“Aye,” Tiarnen said, his eyes also turning toward the noise Breldor had pointed out. “I wish to reach home as quickly as possible. Let us ride until dark.”

Breldor kept casting deviled glares toward the trees until one of the riders let out a cry. Tiarnen halted his steed just as a bay gelding crashed through the woods right at them. “Shae! Shae astel!” Tiarnen cried, swinning his stallion in front of it. There was a brief collision before Tiarnen grabbed the reins, swining from his own mount to calm the fightened horse. As the men drew up closer to him, he examined the horse, talking softly in his own tounge which, even if the bay didn’t understand, had a very calming effect.

“Where did he come from?” Breldor asked, resting a hand on the heaving flank as Tiarnen frowned, gazing in the direction it had come. “He looks well bred.”

“Yes.” So the girl had been a fool and entered the woods. The tesvin were after her, and though they did no kill, they enjoyed the process of seeing one suffer in fear and pain. They were strange creatures that resembled a dog and cat with the heads of snakes and long. Black, silky fur covered they’re low crawling bellies, thus were a favorite for pelts amount the Blackwood elves. No one felt sorry that they were trapped and killed for they were a nucense throughout the entire woods. They also found great joy in tormenting innocent people.

“This is the horse stolen from Prince Jerren. Breldor, make camp a mile from here. I don’t want to have to worry about those over grown rats tonight. Take two men with you. The rest will come with me.”

Breldor looked at the bay with almost hungry eyes. “And the steed?”

“Take him and make sure no other harm then fright has overcome him.”

Lossening his sword, Tiarnen swung back up onto the unicorns back. The black arched his neck, sensing a chase. Braldor choose his two men and those left pulled out there bows and let there blades sit lose in there hilts. Following there prince, they set out at a fast pace into the dark woods, leaving the light orbs that illuminated the way for the others.

It didn’t take long to find the tesvin and there pray. The girl was being dragged down the trail away from the elves. When the stragglers caught the pounding hooves racing toward them, many scattered, knowing that no deer had come wandering by. Some were more stubborn and guarded they’re captive until arrows took out there throats or a silver dagger sliced the silk fur. The killed were quickly gathered to take back so they could be skinned and the pelts sold.

The girl was unconscious, laying in the mud with her tunic ripped and some nasty bruises crawling up her arm. There were some cuts that had cone deep from the tesvins claws and her forearm was swollen. Fearing a break in the slender arm, Tiarnen gathered her quickly and  gentley into his arms. Once his men had gathered they’re prizes for the night and she was settled onto his stallion, Tiarnen quickly left the territory of the tesvins and made for the camp that Braldor would have begun to prepare by now.

A fire was burning within the glow of a dozen orbs, when Tiarnen and his men arrived back. The wind was howling through the tree tops, causing many to shiver at the unpleasant sound that it created. Clutching cloaks as they finished getting things out, including a meal, the elves grumbled at the coming storm. With a thick canopy above them, little rain would fall through but it still called for more shelter then required. Tiarnen let Braldor take the girl from him before he dismounted, another man taking the reins of his horse. “I want some water boiled quickly,” Tiarnen told Braldor as the man carried the girl to the blankets that were to be his bed. “I’ll tend her wounds. Don’t get too comfortable. How is the horse?”

“His left leg is a bit swollen,” Braldor noted, letting out a huge sigh as he lowered her to the blankets. “Other then that some scratches but he’s fine. How about her?”

Tiarnen’s eyes focused on the pale figure a moment before untying the cloak at her waist and checking her body for further injuries. Her wrist was broken, and her tighs were scratched up terribly. “Pretty good. Tesvins play rather then hunt but we need to disinfect her wounds in case they bite her.”

The elf prince worked quickly while his men ate a quick meal and the rain began to fall. Tiarnen’s face was grim as he worked yet he couldn’t help but smile at the lithe figure who had been brave enough to steal a horse from the Prince of Deor. Her featuers resembled the hardy Randirim yet there was something strangly fermiluar and exotic about her, too. He kept his mouth in a grim, straight line as he dapped the hot water, soaked with some herbs he had in his satchel, over the cuts and bruises. It wasn’t until he began to reset her wrist that she woke up and screamed in reaction to the sharp pain.

“Easy, easy!” Tiarnen cooed softly, letting go of her wrist (which allowed her to snap it back and hurt it even more). “You’re alright. You’re safe. You broke your wrist. I have to reset and splint it.”

Her eyes widened as she tried to inch away from him. “You…you…where’s Sicaol? What did you do to him?”

“Your horse is alright.”

“You stole him!”

Tiarnen blinked and rocked back onto his heels, his hands on his thighs as he regarded her with genuine amusment. “No, I believe you already did that.”

Her eyes, a brilliant blue, narrowed. “Then why did you send your pets after me?”

“She must have hit her head hard,” Braldor snickered from where he was sharpening his dagger on a welting stone. “Easy, lady. His highness only saved you from those foolish tricksters that you were foolish enough to walk right into.” He raised his eyebrow when she glared at him. “She’s feisty, isn’t she.”

Tiarnen said nothing. “You wrist is broken.”

She looked down at it, pale and weak despite her accusions. “It hurts…” she admitted in a soft voice. Gently, Tiarnen reached out and took it in his hand. “You’re…going to hurt me.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But I need to make sure it’s still set right if the fracture didn’t move. I’ll try to be quick. I wish you were still unconscious. This would be easier.”

Oh, how she would have slapped him with her hand if it wasn’t broken! Closing her eyes she stifled a scream a few times before he jerked her hand and the bone slipped back into place. Braldor muttered that her screaming would alert the tesvin to there location. Feeling sick and sweaty, she looked up at Tiarnen who began to split the wrist with linen and some sturdy sticks he had found earlier. “You’re a prince or something?”

“Prince Tiarnen, son of Thranorn of Blackwood. You have a name?”

She glared at him a moment. “Khayrael Melranah of Rand,” she said curtly.

“A pretty name,” Tiarnen said as he finished his task with a quick flick of his own wrist and tied the split. “Did you know that this horse came from Prince Jerren Renis’ party? A very brave act to steal from a prince. I admire your curoage.”

Khayrael glared at him. “I didn’t know he was a prince.”

Tiarnen turned away from her and began to order his men to pack quickly even as the rain began to fall. Khayrael groaned. “I just wanted to get to…” She cut herself off suddenly when he looked at her. Her mouth went dry and she felt dizzy. She wanted to cry at her misfourtions, hating herself for being such a fool. Now she was caught by the woodelves and there prince was the most annoying of them all. When Tiarnen came to pick her up, placing her on his unicorn mount, she said nothing, forcing the tears welling up on her eyelashes no to fall. Tiarnen swung up behind her, then turned to an elf he addressed as Braldor, talking in elvish so that she did not understand what was going on. “I’m taking you home immedietly,” Tiarnen whispered into her ear, his arms closing around her and preventing escape. Her mind wanted to get away from them, to continue on her way to Thyrayyah were she would be safe, but her body was exsauseted. Falling into his embrace and into the blackness that soon surrounded her seemed far to natural for her liking.

With the girl passed out from pain and exsaustion in his arms, Tiarnen kept his arm tightly around her. She was too thin for his liking. Perhaps it was due to her weeks of running after her kingdom was destroyed with little food or water. He left the bay with his men and Sicaol, as she called him, would be coming sortly after them. He wanted to get her to safety and let her rest. Despite her act of stealing, he couldn’t bring himself to punish her after all he had seen and she had said. But where was she going? Nimat? She was surley lost of she thought to take short cut through Blackwood. Perhaps Thryayyah, then. He sighed, guiding the black through the maze that was his home at a fast, easy pace until they entered the long, well trodden road that was the main route to Khaore. It was known as the Black Road to many for it wound its long, dreary way through most of Blackwood and along the Aninn, or Aspermire, until it came into the Pass of Duain. It was one of the few roads that the was considered safe throughout the forest – then again, it had stations in the tree tops from end to end.

Tiarnen wasn’t stopped as he galloped through the woods, the girl in his arms and his face grim. He was angry; angry at the world for the evil that corrupted men and beast alike. Scared for those that still stood against Dezerak and that they would perish in the coming war. The girl in his arms was hardly in her teen years, young and vaunerable, yet even if she had survived the destruction of her home she was still in great peril. He frowned. Such dark times had come.

His friend Gil had lived through much of the post Great War events and despite what Thranorn had said about men Tiarnen saw that there only hope may lay with the men of this world. He wanted to fight. He wanted to liberate Rerir and bring about peace. Perhaps open up Blackwood to the vast richness that lay in the center of the wood and where the elves kept there lands free of the pestilences that plagued it. Within the valley were fields and crops that were tended and guarded. As men turned there back on them, the Blackwood elves traded with the dwarves and with a few in Thyrayyah. The Border Pass was the second path to the southlands, if one was brave enough to pass the edge of Blackwood. Little did most travelers know that the eastern edge of the forest was less vile then the rest of it.

The gray, mossy walls of Khaore rose ahead, the main street rising like a tier, weaving farther up the mountain side with steep slopes in areas. Trees grew in odd places amoung the grassy patches where elven families dwelled in elaborately crafted homes of wood and stone. There was no gate guarding the city for the forest itself protected them. No walls stood in the way as he loped the lathered unicorn toward his home. Tiarnen was hailed by some of the men in the guard towers and people as he went by, suddenly flanked by solidiers who jumped at his sudden appearance to do there duty.

“Where are we?”

The voice was quiet and almost unheard above the storm that rumbled in the mountains. So determined to reach home, Tiarnen had not realized that the girl was awake, as weak and pale as she looked, and was looking around as they moved through Khaore. “My home,” he said softly with a tenderness that surprised him. “This is my city.”

She managed a snort but didn’t say anything. “And where do you live?” she asked as they went higher up the slope. “The very top of the mountain?”

He scowled at her scarcasim. “Actually, there,” and he pointed to the Woodland Palace, a structure of wood and stone with open windows that were as high as some of the walls in the great hall and did not appear to be covered in anything. She was silent when they road up to the stables and dismounted before the building partially embodied into the mountain walls itself. He slid off his horse easily then carefully helped her down.

“Your Highness! You’re home early!”

Tiarnen turned to glare at the stablemaster. As a boy he had never liked the faulse tone in his voice – he still didn’t but managed, like always, to keep his voice calm and controlled. “Gilanel relieved me of my post and sent me home. This,” he added ruefully as he nearly pulled a scowling, unwilling Khayrael off the black unicorn, “is something I picked up along the way. Target practice for the tesvins, actually. Will you see that Shadow is taken care of, Tarsis.” The man nodded, scowling before he went off to tend to the prince’s mount. Tiarnen glared after him then turned to Khayrael. “Come, you need to rest and lie down. I’ll have a healer come to look at your  hand and your other wounds. Can you walk?”

She glared at him. “Yes,” she snapped.

Despite her answer, Tiarnen found that she was weak and tired as she leaned against him as he lead her toward his room on the west wing of the palace. His father, he learned, had left on a hunt a few days after Gilanel had departed to find him. Thanking the gods that his father had left, Tiarnen smiled. He tried to carry her a few times but she made such a fuss that he allowed her to stumbled next to him. He set his jaw. If she wanted to hurt herself further, fine. She wasn’t going anywhere until she had healed.

“How big is this place?”

“Smaller then King Rhault’s palace, I’m sure,” he muttered, nodding to some servents who smiled at him as they passed.

Khayrael pouted. “I never saw the insides of the palace much less the king’s city. My father came from Ansaridor, my mother was born in Rand. We were simple in living. Closest I’ve come to royalty was the knights.”

“I don’t count?” he asked, looking down at her as they stopped at one of the double doors that lead to his quarters. She started to glare at him when he merely shrugged, his arm around her waist to keep her from falling. “I am a prince.”

“Fine,” she said venoumously. “You’re the closet thing I’ve come to in terms of royalty. Happy?”

He coulnd’t help it. “Much happier,” and he pushed open his doors to the quaint yet eleboartly decorated living space. “Here, lay down while I search for…”

“There you are! No fanfare? No fuss? I’m so ashamed of you!”

An elderly elf, her hair a silver-blond cascading in thin rivlets over her frail shoulders, came into the room. She looked like she should be stooping and walking as if her joints were addling her yet she managed to sweep into the room as if she was still young. Khayrael only stared. “Oh, and now you’re bringing home women. How lovely,” the woman continued, giving Tiarnen a thump on the shoulder before coming to take Khayrael from him. “I hope this wasn’t you! Oh, tesvin bites. Nasty little buggers if you get on there bad side. Come, child…dear gods, Tiar! She’s nothing but a child, isn’t she! Oh, never mind. Men. If I didn’t know that one any better I’d say he was trying to be a hero of some sort! Lay down and I’ll send for a healer.”

Khayrael was besmused and shocked as the women lead her to a louning sofa and lay her down slowly as she talked and fussed. Almost in a frightened, unsure way, she turned to Tiarnen who looked a bit hurt and confused but the faint teasing of a smirk told her differently. He was enjoying this slightly. Suddenly, being pampered by this women wasn’t so bad if he was feeling uncomfortable. She smiled her thanks at the women, sinking into the sofa with a soft sight.

“Out with you, boy!” the women suddenly cried. “Leave the women in peace. Have you no manner or have they been forgotten back at the northern post?”

An eyebrow quirked and Tiarnen smiled ruefully. “As you wish, Brissis. I’ll fetch the healer and let you do your fussing.” He bowed, a hand sliding along his back to fold his cloak, a very dark green, she now noticed, along his dark traveling cloths. “Is there a time I’ll be able to return as to use my bathing chambers?”

Brissis then shoed him out, giving him no response to his question. With a sigh formed more from weirness then exsaparation, Tiarnen set off to find a healer for the girl he had rescued in the forest.

 

“Why isn’t the floor getting wet?”

The storm had begun it’s torrential down pour an hour ago. Khayrael had survived the tender hands of the healer and now lay in a rather comfortable down bed with blankets secured around her and a meal on her lap. Brisiss had moved her to a guest chamber somewhere else in the palace. It wasn’t as richly furnished as Tiarnen’s but it was much more then she thought she deserved. Brisiss had fussed over her, which she admittied only to herself that she liked and was currently laying out some garments on a chest.

“Spells,” the woman replied simply, fingering a simple blue gown with her hands. “There are spells put up, shield barriers or something that only allow what we want to enter and nothing else. Eat. Then you need to rest.”

Nibbling at the fine tasing bread with her good hand, Khayrael said nothing. The healer had mended the bone in her wrist but it still hurt and would need time to let the muscles around the bone to  heal. He had put slave on her other wounds, including something that smelled rather foul on her burises, and left her be. Once she was settled in the other room, food had been brought which had caused her to gasp and her eyes sparkle with joy. Perhaps being rescued by the prince wasn’t that bad. She was defiantly getting the royal treatment.

When she had finished with her meal, she was left so sleep. The room grew darker, the light orbs dimmed or put out. It was magically eerie in the room and she watched the lightning play on the furniture. She had never feared storms and had always been fascinated by there power and force, enough to make her sisters scream in fear that some evil spirit was coming to get them. Lulled by the rumble and the sound of the rain, Khayrael began to fall asleep. The door opened and she frowned as it closed.

“Who is it?”

“Tiarnen, your humble savior,” the prince scoffed as he raised his hand, the orbs around her bed illuminating enough for him to see her. “I wanted to make sure Brissis behaved herself.”

He sighed as he sat down on the bed, pulling up one leg to his chin and resting his head on his arm, gazing down at her almost sadly. He had bathed, his hair still damp and laying in dreads on his shoulders. He wore a dressing robe of elaborate green and gold, hemmed with leaves that seemed to be patterned like the canopy, small silver thread woven into it as if there was dew on each leaf. He looked tired, drawn and concerned. “I’m fine,” she said, crossing her arms once she had rolled over to her back.

Tiarnen raised his head. “Oh, that I do not doubt,” he said with no smile save in the glint of his eyes and an underlaying tone in his voice. “How long has it been since you ran from your village in Rand?”

She paused to think. “About two weeks. Why?”

Almost confiding in her, Tiarnen bit his tounge and shook his head. He needed to sleep. He was tired, drawn and confused. And scared. He would admit that to no one but his closest friends and brother.

A crack of thunder smote the air and both of them jumped, hearts racing as if the city was under attack. For one fearful moment, Tiarnen believed so. “Thank the gods this is a normal storm,” he muttered, rising from the bed and striding on long legs to one of the high arches that acted like windows.

Khayrael frowned. “Why would it not be normal?”

“Reasons that either you are not to understand or will be told another time.”

She wanted him to leave but he stood there, staring at the window as the rain fell and the thunder rolled over the forest and mountains. Finally, her eyes began to close and as sleep began to take her again, she heard Tiarnen come back to her bed, his fingers lightly caressing her forehead before the lights dimmed and he left.

e VII f

The company of elves and men stood on the ridge overlooking the city of Nimat, still a day’s journey from them but from there vantage point it was a welcoming spectical after two days of hard travel and worry. Jerren and Rilorn had talked last night debating there best choice of action. Both had agreed that they would march into the city as if nothing had happened. The only problem left was that of the men, bound and mounted on there horses, that were with them. Terron scowled and Banall was impassive. Some of the others hung there head. Part of him did not want to raise a scandle when he returned. The other half did so that he could shove his legal rank down Ralur’s throat. Sighing and adjusting his traveling cloak around his shoulders to keep out the bitter November winds. He bearly felt confident in half the things he did and now he was being asked to save the world. Well, not quite but it was close to that as far as he was concerned. He knew he coulnd’t keep Rilorn and the elves much longer and did not want them involved in the battle he was sure to come in Nimat. There king would most likely not see it as Tiarnen would and either call for a war or something else he didn’t want to deal with.

“A friend of mine has lands in the woody hills to the left,” Jerren said, pointing to where the towers of Castle Aulden. Lord Valian Tairoth had befriend the prince in his youth at court and grew up together, having been fosterlings in training at the same castle. Valian was also a member of Ralur’s family, which now seemed to be odd and the least safest route to travel. His instincts told him to trust Valian. If he wanted any chance of seeing his home again, he was going to risk it. “We’ll pay him a visit tonight.”

“Is he trust worthy?” asked Kaiand, peering into the woods as if they were something bred in Diamord. “If Ralur’s plan has carried out to your father’s fall or even death, then we must be very careful.”

Jerren scowled. “Yes. We will be careful. If Valian proves to be true to his word and still my loyal friend, despite his blood ties with Ralur, then I will send you and the elves home. We don’t want to start more problems then we already have and including you in my political affairs is bad enough. This is a mater of state.”

The older elf nodded. “Yes. Only Tiarnen’s words convinced me to go with you.”

“Honestly, I think my brother would be a better king then my father. He thinks. Thranorn sits there and gets angry at everything. Even Tiar when he tries to help or do something about the problems with Deor and Thyrayyah. I was told he gets beaten – litterlarly.”

Growing cold for a moment, Jerren threw out that as a roumor of a concerned brother. His father punished him but would never have him beaten like a common criminal. Tiarnen never seemed to talk ill about his father thus he had to conclude that it was all in Rilorn’s head. “Come. I wish to reach Aulden before sunset.”

They left the rocky ridge and decended into the well worn path used by the people of Aulden. All were silent, even the prisoners. Jerren thought about his plight. A week ago he left on a diplomatic mission. A faulse one at that. Now he was rushing home to save his kingdom from a boy who was nothing more then a spoiled brat! Hopefully, Valian would have news from him. His cousin just may have slipped him information or current events which would prove helpful. As long as Valian remained faithful. He was worried about that with each step through the quaint forest. Birds chirped and called to each other over head. Bugs hummed and the horses snorted. Nothing seemed out of place but a knowing feeling of fear that he was walking into a trap kept lurking in his mind and would not let go. When the walls of Aulden rose above them through the trees, moss covered and ancient. It was one of the last defenses to Deor and Valian’s family had defened it for years. They never failed. Of course, he was expecting scouts near the vale. It disappointed and ifurated him that they were being so careless. Then again, his mind reminded him, if his father had rode off on that planned attack it was likely reserves would have been pulled up from all over Deor. Hopefully that was the reason.

The ancient gates were wide open to there invitation thus they had little problem getting inside the castle. Gaurds jumped up from playing there pastime games to jump to attention when they saw the crest of Nimat on the saddle pad of Jerren’s horse. “Is Lord Valian Tairoth in residence?” he asked crisply while the elves formed a orderly barrier around the prisoners.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Send him to me right away. I will wait for him here.”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” the man bobbed and turned to a sentry to do the job. It wasn’t until then that Jerren noticed that they were all staring at him as if he was a ghost. His jaw tightnened but his stomach jumped in dispare. Perhaps news had reached Aulden and it wasn’t what Terron had said would happen. Had Ralur already seized the throne of Nimat? “Forgive me, Your Highness,” the mad said more softly, coming closer as if he didn’t want his men to hear. Jerren frowned at him slightly yet realized he was still being addressed as a prince rather then king. His father wasn’t dead – yet.  Relaxing at that hopefull knowlage, he nodded to the guard. “Word reached our ears that you were killed in a raid of some sort.”

Jerren checked his nervous mount. “The roumors are faulse. I live, thanks to the aid of the Blackwood elves. Tell me, is Aulden still loyal to the house of Renis, or has it become a supporter of Ralur Soreath?”

“That backstabbing scoundrel? I think not! Jerren!” Lord Valian grinned as he ran down the steps, his robes billowing out behind him to make him look more omounious then Jerren knew he really was. A man slightly older then he by two years with a head of straw hair and eyes as green as a summer meadow. He was rounder then Jerren but moved with as much speed as when they were lads learning to weild a broadsword. With a smile and his spirits lifted, Jerren dismounted to greet his old friend. “I hoped the message from Ralur was a faulse one. I was beginning to lose hope and that you had died. Oh, but come. You have much to tell and much to think about, I’m sure.” Bright, cheerful eyes turned from the prince to the company behind them. “Oh, you do have a tale to tell.”

Rilorn came to stop next to the humans with an impish grin on his face. He was rather young for his kind, Jerren knew, and he obviously was enjoying his brothers choice to let him come along. “We won’t stay long, Lord Valian,” Rilorn said casually. “Prince Jerren here only intends to boot us out as soon as he can. Of course, he had good reason. I am Rilorn, son of Thranorn in Blackwood.”

“Prince?” Valian asked, his eyebrow quirking up inquisitively.

“Oh, nay. Only if Tiar dies or I get really bored and greedy and kill him in his sleep. I’m his half brother, illigeiment and unfit to rule. Fine by me. I just hope I get more reconigtion when Tiarnen is king.”

Valian went silent and thoughtful as Kaiand ordered a dismount, the prisoners forced to stay astride a bit longer. “Lad, many of us believe your brother would be a finer king then his father. Prince Tiarnen has done us favors before, I’m not surprised he helped you. His father has a heart of stone, his son a heart of gold.” He looked at Ril, smiling admirably. “When the time comes, Tiarnen will prove what he has to us all, including his father.”

“He believes a war is coming,” Jerren said softly.

“Yes, so the reports tell me but they are indirect. Ralur claims everything is fine but I do not agree. He may be my cousin but he’s as witless as a worm out of the earth. But this is not the place for such talk. You should take some rest and food. Then we can discuss matters properly.”

The elves agreeded to this and Jerren nodded. “Aye, rest and food sounds like heaven. The men, the knights, are to be taken to the dungeons. They are traitors. I will deal with them later.”

With a curt bow, Valien gave the orders and the men were hauled off there mounts and to the dungeons while the elves and Jerren followed Valien into the castle.

 

A short time later, after night had already decended on the castle and most of the great hall was empty of roudy knights and serving girls, four men sat at the head of the table, silently talking or having another glass of wine. While Rilorn did the later, the other three talked of what was happening inside Nimat, the problems at hand and what was to be done about them.

“We have no sure evidence of war,” Jerren mused, still not liking the idea of becoming a king as such a young age. He was only twenty. “Tiarnen insists that I take the throne and…”

“Because you’ll do something about a war if he does come,” Valien said calmly. “And if Dezerak leaves us be until you’re long buried in the tombs of your forefathers, then so be it. At least we’ll know that it’s your bloodline that sits on the throne of Nimat and not some spoiled brat who would be an open invitation for Dezerak to walk in and take what he wants to badly. He’s pacient, sly and crafty, the Dark Lord is. After all, he’s slowly been devouwering Rerir for four hundred years. If he really wanted to destroy us, he would have done so years ago.”

The eldest elf at the table snorted. “Dezerak is said to want more then the entire world at his finger tips. He wants the people. Some nations have fallen because they accepted his rule and agreed to follow him with little or no fight. Saarn, for exsample. They’re as faithful to Dezerak as the creatures that follow him. Many of the winged wolves can’t be trusted no more and Khayr Rukan has been in his control for years. After Deor, Blackwood would either be next or he simply assumes that we would follow him.”

“If Thranorn still sits on the throne,” Rilorn muttered, “Then yes, we will be joining him in his total domination of the world.”

Jerren stubbornly shook his head. “Then kill Thranorn and get Tiarnen on the throne!” But he was joaking and when he laughed slightly the others relaxed. “But Tiarnen would be the best leader of the elves if such a thing happened.”

“He would rather do good deeds then govern his people,” Kaiand said. “It would take great convincing or need to get the boy onto the throne. I think the same goes for you, young Jerren.”

“Perhaps. I expected to be far older when I was asked to do this.”

“Sometimes we need to make our own choices and take the coniquenses, Jer,” Valien said quietly. “Think, man. If Ralur is trying to take your thrown…”

“By all rights, Ralur is the rightful king of Nimat,” Kaiand said glumly. “When Aiya Renis came to Nimat she manged to overrule the government then and her son became the heir at the time. Because he was the son of Jesparan who’s line could be traced to the High King’s seat in Khayr Rukan. Until now, no one has complained about the break in the line.”

The Aulden lord rubbed his temple slowly. “I think the biggest question is this, Jerren.” He paused easing his growing headache to look at the young man that was scowling at his glass thoughtfully. When he looked up, Valien continued. “Do you want to be king? Do you, and are you prepared to fight the Dark Lord when and if he comes to attack us in this age? If prince Tiarnen is correct, we are entering the last war of this age.”

Silence decended on them. The fire crackled at the hearth and servents came to clean the mess from the feast. Jerren stared at the flames licking the logs, his lips pursed and body feeling like it wanted to fight – something. No, he did not want any of this. He had saught adventure and trouble as a lad, Valien to help him or get him out of it in most cases, but this was the real thing. He wanted advise from his most loyal advisers and friends – but they were not here. Yet he could feel that something was happening, something that was going to be big and worthy of song and stories for years to come and he wanted to be a part of it.

Suddenly, his mind was made up.

“Rilorn, Kaiand, tomarrow I need you to return to Blackwood. Ask Tiarnen to keep in close contact with me from now on, either with a messenger or one of those hawks you train. I will contact him as soon as I have Nimat under control.” The elves, shocked but both seeming rather pleased, nodded feverently. “My old friend, I ask only a few of your men, loyal and true, to come with me and for you to keep my former gaurds locked away until I know my own fate.”

The lord nodded once in acknowlagement. “But I will go with you. Your father lies dying, Jerren.”

“You did not tell me this earlier,” Jerren snapped, his voice harsh with anger and shock.

Valien held up his hand. “Aye, I am aware of that. But I also wished to know that you would take on a responsibility, not to mention task, under your own free with rather then your fathers dying wish. We need a strong leader for Deor in these days, Jerren. I only pray that I can lead my men into battle with your banner and have confidence in our king.”

Scowling, Jerren glared a moment before shaking his head, closing his eyes with weiryness. “The day is old and we all need rest. On the marrow, I will ride for Nimat and you will accompany me. I will write a letter for Tiarnen that you will deliver for me,” he said to the rising elves, both as request and demand. They nodded, Rilorn’s eyes glinting with excitement. All four departed to there rooms in there own thoughts.

In his room, Jerren placed his large, tanned hands on the ledge of the window, his scowl bearing down on the land below. His room was on the wrong side of the castle to be glaring toward Nimat but perfect to see the mountains of the Aulden vale. A few times he was certain that lightning, laced with red as if fire was amoung it, was reflected on the topmost peaks high above them. Fyrfac, the Fire Demon. The thought that the beast of ledgend was set upon the world was terrifying. He had no proof, no certain facts that anything was about to happen. Fire-lightning would not convince the Nimat councilmen nor urge all the surrounding lands within Deor to battle should it come. His father struggled to unite his people, some vieing for Ralur Soreath to rule, others wishing for the true line to stay on the throne. The battle to come, if it came, would be brutal and hard.

And he still wanted facts. He still wanted someone to tell him that these things were going to happen instead of feeling helpless and insecure about his future. Tomarrow he would return to Nimat as if nothing was amiss, save returning with men of Aulden’s colors. He would go home to the palace and play a game of innocents until he was sure of what was to come. And if Ralur had already tried to take his crown – well the bastard better know how to beg like the worthless dog he was!

 

The morning was gray and rainy when Jerren decended from the steps to find the elves mounting and preparing to ride off. Rilorn and Kaiand came to bid him farewell and good luck. He passed a letter to Rilorn who smiled, nodded and gave him the costumary woodland bow. Jerren returned it. The elves mounted there unicorn steeds and galloped off into the misty morning. He watched them go, his heart aching to keep them for they had proven to be more then guides but trustworthy allies and friends. As was the man who sent them. He stopped next to his steed and ran a gloved hand down the stallions neck. He was focused despite the day’s weather and he was determined that nothing would stop him. A night’s rest had done wonders. He was decided that he would not let his country fall into ruin or worse because of some foolish, spoiled brat. If war came and if they fell, at least they would fall fighting.

Valien had hand choosen four men to accompany them back to Nimat. He had also choosen a protector for his prince until they reached the city and a new protector could be placed at his side. The man’s name was Sir Jardell Klembek with enough scars on the visiable parts of his body to prove he had lived through enough. He was from the north, near Khayr Rukan and knew enough about the darkness that slept beyond the mountains of Ghavin. Though he remained grim and determined most of the time, Sir Jardell was the kind of man Jerren immedietly liked. There was no mischive in his eyes or games. He had a duty and he was prepared to die for it – with a fight.

They set out single file with Valien in the lead and Jerren riding amoung the soldiers. It would take most of the day, Jerren knew yet they pressed there mounts hard, wishing to reach it before worse things could happen. Most of the council would be waiting for King Jandoran to die so that they could move quickly and make Ralur king and ensure any desputes would be silenced before begun. Because of this gruling paced into the farmlands and plains ere the sun had reached its zenith. They stopped to rest a moment before setting off again, with little spoken in the departure. The road was clear as they came to it, a dirt path with wagon wheels etched along the side. Farmers tilled there fields, giving a passing thought to the riders galloping by, and some paid them no heed at all.

Nimat was as he had left it, Jerren decided when the galloped through the gates, the gaurds recognizing him and Valien’s colors immediently and letting them pass without question. Nimat was a city of foundation and strength rather then beauty. The streets were stone, buildings practical and lacking much of any arcutectuale design. It was ancient and proud. Exchilaration rose in Jerren as his steed pranced up the main street that lead straight for the palace and his home.

It was the crowd that gathered to gawk that told Jerren that there were things amis in Nimat. The gaurds let them pass into the stable yard of the palace with nothing more then confused or shocked stares while some made small sound hehind there hands. Some made signs to ward off the dead. You will not win, Ralur, Jerren growled as a stable boy took the reins of his horse and he dismounted.

“Word will have reached him by now,” Valien muttered as they drew closer, gaurds coming into order around them and the two protectors flanking there respected lord with grim determination. “We wait for him. Let him make the first move – the first mistake. You have done nothing wrong and he knows it.”

They did not have to wait long for the boy to appear on the steps, his umurn red hair damp and his attire hastily robed. Inwardly, Jerren smirked to see this, glad to have interrupted this bath. Ralur was not a handsome young man nor was he considered good looking by many of the women that he managed to convince to share his bed. His featuers were to narrow and long for his body, which resmembled his face with more gut then a man with skills of a blade should have. It proved his lazyness and lack of attention to the duties he would not have been able to neglect if he had been the prince of Deor. Jerren was fit, healthy and strong, well above the word handsome in his father’s court and he knew it – and hated it. Why, he still did not know.

“Ralur!” Valien cried out in mock delight. “Look who I found wandering in the woods near Aulden. A plesent surprise, is it not. And here we thought prince Jerren to have died.”

The youth approached them, the robed figure of his mentor lurking at his heels like always. Jerren disliked the man and figured he had some part in the matters that had conspired in the recent days. “So it appears,” Ralur said, quickly masking his anger and shock with one of false reliefe. He came to stand before Jerren who gave him a knowing, disapproving look. A warning, Jerren thought as he let only his usuall dememor, drilled into him since brith, rule the moment. Make one false move and you’ll be joinging those in Aulden, he thought vemounsly while accepting the courteous bow that the man preformed. “Welcome home, your highness,” he said.

“How fares my father?” Jerren asked, trying to sound casual. “I was told of his wounds and the battle in the north. He lives?”

Ralur rose meeting Jerren’s golden eyes with his own ice blue glare. “He lives, if that is what you wish to know but his wounds are many and his pain great. After all, he did learn that his only son was presumed dead a few days ago.”

“Ah, yes. I will see him swiftly to ease his pain,” Jerren replied, brushing past Ralur easily with Sir Jerdell at his heels and Valien not far behind. “Call the council in session. There are reports that I bring back that must be heard immedietly.”

There was a certain thrill to it all. To the hussling of servents to do his bidding as they were sent out to find the councilemen within the palace, to the men whispering as he passed them by on the way to his quarters. Valien left him with no words save a promise to appear when the council was in session. He did not know what Jerren proposed to tell the council; Ralur’s betrayal and tresion or of the war that Tiarnen insisted they prepare for. Nevertheless, he would be present to help his friend and prince who was to assume the duty of king until his father was well – or died. In the latter case, Jerren would become king my Deorian law.

He bathed quickly in the water brought to his chambers then donned his ceremonial robes for the council chamber. Shaking the water from his hair one last time, and to try to shake some of the pent up frustration, Jerren strode to his father’s quearters, determined to see all his plans threw – no matter what the council threw at him today.

Windows were drawn shut making the room stuffy and muggy. Physicians came to tell him somethings while he boldy went to the windows and threw them open. The men babbled about the king’s health, that the air would make him sick but Jerren ignored them until he finally snapped, “Then close them while I leave! This room is a festation ground for infection,” and he sent them away.

“Jerren?”

“I’m here, father,” he said, his voice and temper dropping to a concerned tone. “They lied. I did not die.”

Jandoran smiled. He was bandaged and bloody, long bruises along his arm and face. Taking a long, slender hand in his own, Jerren noticed how pale and weak his father was. Frowning he kissed his father’s head. He was hot. “That is good,” Jandoran whispered, looking at Jerren sadly. “My health has not improved. I fear the worst.”

“The worst will happen should you die,” Jerren said softly. “Ralur is after the crown, father. I believe that my mission and your battle were tricks to get us killed.”

Furrowing creased brows, Jandoran frowned. “Spoiled boy,” he mused. “Foolish and ambitious, too, if he is willing to kill to get his way. The council will never support him…”

Jerren shook his head. “Nay, I think the council supports his plea.”

Even dying, Jandoran glared so hard at his son that Jerren recoiled slightly. “Just because his ansestory can be traced back to the days before Aiya Renis came to Nimat and took his line off the throne doesn’t give him the right to kill.” He continued before Jerren could protest. “And he can only claim the throne – the crown comes from our ancestors. He knows that. As should you. I heard the council bells tolling. You called them to session?”

Jerren nodded. “Tiarnen warned me that…”

“You’re taking advise from an elf?” Jandoran cried out, wincing in pain. “You’re as bad as Ralur!”

“No, father, listen!” Damn, if he couldn’t get his father to believe how could he convince a council of over a dozen? “Events have happened that give Tiarnen reason to suspsect that Dezerak will soon strike Deor hard. No more skirmishes, no more games. He’s done waiting for us to give in and fall. Why, I don’t know nor does Tiarnen. The elves have access to knowlage from the dwarves, who in turn can reach those working in the mines for Dezerak’s minions. They know more then us. If Deor falls, the rest of Rerir will go. I’m not taking that chance. Ralur will lead this land to it’s downfall. Tiarnen believes that it must be me on the throne of Deor, or you,” he added quickly, “to ensure our land is safe.”

The king said nothing. He only stared at his son, his mouth drawn into a straight line that Jerren knew the meaning of well. His father didn’t like anything he was saying. “Because the elves told you?” Jerren glared at him but said nothing in return. “Because some elven prince, who’s bloodlines is probably half as royal as you are, told you. If Dezerek strikes out at us with full force, it won’t matter who is on the throne. We will fall. Do you think I care anymore? For my entire life as king I’ve fought a losing battle. May our end be swift, is all I have to say!”

Cold with horror at what he just heard, Jerren shot from the bed and stared at the old man. “How could you,” he breathed, then spun around on his heels. “Close those windows,” he snapped at the physicians. “Let him rot in his chamber for all I care.”

He was still storming when he reached the council chamber. The handful of those in session stood at his entrance, some scowling, some confused but there anyway. Many had thrown on there robes or were still trying to get them on as they found there seats. The chamber was a high vaulted cealing of timber and mortar, stone tiers on either side of the center that held the crest of Nimat, Ralur’s symblol rather then Jerren’s. He knew little of his family’s background from Khayr Rukan. Much of the heirlooms had been lost when it was besieged in the Great War. The First Great War, Jerren corrected silently as he took his seat next to the kings. Ralur was present, in his own chair farther down and Valien already was in his, cleaned and dressed for the occasion. He nodded to Jerren.

“Recent attempts on my life have brought this session together,” Jerren decalred, his voice carrying over the noise and people immediately settled into silence. “Those that attempted to kill me are imprisoned in Aulden until I send for there transfer to Nimat. Prince Tiarnen of Blackwood saved my life. To him I am greatful yet it is not the first time I own my life to his hands.” Murrmurs went around the semi-oval of the council and he waited until they had settled enough to continue. “My own protectore turned on me and later spilled his inentions to Tiarnen.” He glared at Ralur who was fidgeting in his seat, a scarlet color reddening his face. “Yet he brought other things to my attention that we must consider. On the night I made camp outside the eaves of Blackwood, a storm lite the sky in the north. In it was flashes if lightning as well as fire. If the legends are true, Fyrfac has been realeased.” Gaspts filled the room and some men moved to make the symbols of warding of evil spirits. “If this is true, then it can only mean a matter of time before Dezerak means to crush Deor.”

“And you believe a prince of elves?” Isaul Kahnrell asked, his middle aged face set in a scorn as he regaured the prince. “They live in darkness themselves.”

“And battle it each day,” Jerren snapped, trying to keep his calm.

Endar Adsteen from the southern part of Deor, frowned. “Why would Dezerak wait till now to send out Fyrfac if he wants him destroyed so bad? He’s sat there for years and thrown small handfuls of bands at us.”

“Only something important and threatening to Dezerak would convince him to send out Fyrfac which is why you, my young prince, were seeing things that night! Storms do not come with fire!” Isaul finished his statement with a glare at Jerren. Ralur was smirking, the previous mention of his failed plot gone. “We want times of peace and with the victory in the north, despite the kings grevious wounds, our security is now solid and sure. Dezerak will leave us alone.”

“Who stated such blasphemy?” Valien growled. “Dezerak wants the entire world in darkness to that it is his playgrounds. Those lands already controlled by him are slaves to his tasks and treated worse then the pigs! I would rather fight to the death then live under his control, Kahnrell! You are no better then the Dark Lord himself you speak as if he will simply leave the line of Khayr Rukan alive – a threat and a challenge to him until it is gone.”

“Jerren, a threat to Dezerak?” Isaul scoffed, glancing at Ralur who was smirking. “Fine, if it’s Jerren the Dark Lord wants…”

Fingers turning white at the knuckles from his clenched fists, Jerren gritted his teeth harder. “Silence. If you believe that we’re safe now then go back to your family. I hope you are the first to die in the coming battle.”

The councilman’s face looked triumphant as he leaned back in his chair. “You do not hold the power to dismiss a council member, Jerren Renis. Only the king can do that and he has not died yet. Of course, I believe it is time that the true heir take his throne.” Many others, more then Jerren wished to count, nodded in heartly agreement. “Ralur Soreath is more a king then you. You’re nothing more then an imposter.”

Somehow, and in days to come Jerren would not know how he managed it, he stayed calm and stood, tall and defiant before the council, Ralur smirking as if he had already won. He said nothing for son long Valien started to look worried and eventually there was a dead silence in the entire hall. Isaul’s face went from laughing to fearful when he reaslized that Jerren was not backing down and that if the man could have fire coming from his eyes he would be comsumed in it. Jerren took his cue from the calm and always collected Tiarnen, his friend who he wanted there more then anything. Taking a deep breath he began to walk to the center of the room. “My father still lives,” he said so softly some did not hear him at first. “And he has lost my trust and love as easily as this council has. If you wish peace then so be it but I will take the throne of Nimat should my father die. If war comes to this land, I will lead it and met Dezerak with the largest army I can gather to me. I’m sure Tiarnen will even send elves since the men of this world have obviously turned there back on there king!”

“Remember the council can over rule a king,” Isaul threatened.

“And the people can overrule the council,” Valien countered. When the councilman looked at him blankly, the man smiled. “You ever heard of a rebellion?”

“Enough,” Jerren growled, not wishing to snap at Valien but getting fed up with the murmmers. “My father still lives thus I can only act in his stead. But I warn you all right here, right now. I am dead determined to protect my country and I will by whatever means possible. You may think that a life calling Dezerak ‘king’ would be favoarbale but there are tales sung of days of old when life was beautiful and plentiful. I have heard the reports of travlers and spies’ confessions. Khayr Rukan is a wasteland, nothing more then the breeding ground for Dezerak’s foul practices. Right now, I wouldn’t mind seeing half this room enduring what the dwarves or those still in Rune endure.”

Isaul sniffed, rearranging his robes as a dead silence entered the room. “And what of Rand? They are still free. Have you forgotten that or…”

Jerren’s eyebrow quirked as he remembered the report from Tiarnen. “Rand, my lord,” he nearly sneered, “fell only two weeks ago.”

A few mouths dropped and Jerren nearly relveled in Ralur’s stone faced expression as the younger boy paled and his eyes widened. “That’s…that’s not possible!” he burst out, rising from his chair. “No, you are nothing but a liar! Rand…”

“Rand is gone, Ralur! The north is gone. Our buffer zone is gone. I believe one of the refugees that escaped stole my squires horse the night of my betrayal – an order from you I believe. That is enough to try you with treason, Ralur, and being that I havne’t brought forth charges while you have the council wrapped around your finger, I advise you sit down!” And Ralur sat, very hard on his chair so that he winced, muttering soft curses under his breath. Jerren turned to the council. “Until my father’s fate is decided, this council is adjourned. However, considering the recent events,” and he gave a sideways glare at Ralur, “I am keeping a very close eye on all of you – and my own back. I am giving any messenger from Blackwood entrance to the city and if I hear of any being withheld, those holding them from me will be brought to me for question. Adjourned.”

He rose quickly and left the room before he could make a further mess of things.

e VIII f

 “I don’t like this,” Emger growled as his keen eyes took in the speckecal before him. “Are you sure that thing is going to float?”

Bral and Selin were busy pulling out an old fishing boat that was still a float despite all the damage it sustained. After finding some weak ley lines of magic, Selin had bound the holes and the major damange the craft had condtained. Bral was busy weaving reeds together. Seated on a rock while the two aryor grazed in content by the river. It had been only a day since they left the outskirts of Khayr Rukan. Either Fyrfac still thought he was in the city or was rampaging Sirannon with the thought that the elf prince would return home.

The elf looked up at the wolf and raised his eyebrows. “Why you worrying? Are you having more visions? Perhaps a vision of the boat sinking or capsizing. It’s safe enough to get us to the Border Pass, which I hope is still in use.”

“It is,” Emger noted. “And the wood elves still dwell there, also. Thranorn still is king, mind you. Not a very helpful fellow, mind you. Only his son seems to think the better of the times and actually does something to fight the darkness. And I refuse to ride in that thing.”

Bral grinned, his sun tanned face showing the effects of being in the sun too long. “Can’t swim, old boy? Don’t worry. I’ll jump in and save you if you decide to jump out in panic.”

Emger snorted. “I take it you’re sending Ilranis and Aenax ahead,” Emger replied evenly as he watched them. “Then chancing being caught with no aid on the river. These are Dezerak’s lands, still. He has spies.”

Glaring, Selin walked up to the wolf, grabbed a pack and put it on the boat while Bral fretted over the sail rigging some more. “Youre getting annoying,” Selin grumbled. “Perhaps it’s best you don’t come with us. I would like some peace and quite for once. The river, as far as I’m concerned, is my safer option if I wish to reach Thyrayyah as quickly as possible.”

Streaching his forepaws, claws digging up the dirt as he did so, Emger yawned and shrugged. “Fine by me. Humans take to long in so many things.” Selin glared at him as he tossed Bral the second pack and went to the two grazing happily as if there was nothing to worry about. “As long as you meet me at the Wolverheth.”

“Wolverheth?”

Steel blue eyes regarded him with the typical annoyed expression Selin was getting often lately. “You can’t miss it. It’s a huge rock that looks like a wolf.”

“The head or the entire body,” Selin humoured.

“Half the body with wings extened. Any more stupid questions before you set off to kill yourself?”

“None,” Selin said and went to Ilranis who nuzzled him gently before perking his ears to what the elf began to tell him softly. When the stallion nodded, collecting his elegant neck to touch his horn to the elf’s chest in farewell before turning to nip the gelding Aenax lightly. The two aryor set off, disappearing quickly into the sparsh forest. Selin watched them go. All he wanted was to get some place to rest and be safe. Even if Dezerak sent his army to finish his quest to conquour all of Rerir at least he would die someplace other then the dungouns of Slagent. He would die where he choose.

Emger watched the men depart, never leaving his position until the last second. Bounding from the perch he took a flying leap and landed in the skiff, startling Selin and causing Bral to cry out in shock. “Last minute desion,” Emger shrugged off as an explanation. “You’re to important to let out of my sight,” he told Selin as he lay down in the boat.

Taking one of the salavaged ores, Selin helped Bral navigate the skiff into the center of the Aspermire where a strong current began to sweep them southward. “Important to who? Dezerak?”

The look that the wolf gave him was expressionless but colder then ice. “If Dezerak thinks your worth something then you must be valiable to our cause. So I would have to say both. How long is our river trip going to take?”

“Sea sick,” Bral snickered, arching the paddle to keep them in the center of the river. “Or should I saw ‘river sick’?”

“Neither. Just impacient.”

Thankfully, Emger did little complaining after that and they were greated with peace and quite for the remained of the morning. By then, Emger was asleep in the hot sun, a wing arched around his eyes to keep most of the flies and river bugs from bothering his face. Selin and Bral stopped only a few times to eat from the provisions they had brought. Neither wished to put the boat on shore until night fall so they took turns steering the boat and eating. Emger woke a few times to eat a small portion of the rations before streaching out with over expressed lazyness on the boat again. Selin glared at him and Bral shook his head.

The land had changed by the time they pulled in for the night. The sparse woodlands and parries were changing in to a thick forest that looked menacing in the autumn red and golds that were just beginning to blanket the floor of the forests. A chill came from the north, bringing the scent of snow with it. The men unloaded the boat, dragging it with care up to the bank so it wouldn’t drift in the night. Emger warned them do not light a fire. “The winged wolves hunt just about anything these days,” he said. “You two sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

Neither argued with the wolf this time. After a cold meal of bread and jerky, went to sleep. Emger remained awake, his eyes trained to the river as it slowly wound it’s way south toward the mountains of Ennyndor then into the Blackwood. He was wrapped up in thoughts of the past and present. Then, softly to the lapping the shore until he nearly lost track of the time of night and what was going on. Neither of the men woke when a wolf howled in the distance. Emger turned his head to listen to the message that was carried on the wind and frowned when it had at last ended. With a soft growl he rose swiftly and went to nudge Selin roughly in the arm. “Wake up, you no good elf!” he said, nipping a few times to make sure the moaning was in protest of his demand. “Trouble follows us and we would be safer on the river.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“A band of orcs and trolls coming from Rand. It looks like your escape has reached them and Dezerak has sent word that they patrol the area. A wolf-call alerted me to there movement. Hurry. Wake Bral and lets get out of here. We need to reach Blackwood before they catch sight of you.”

Rolling his sleeping blanket into a roll and slapping Bral until he woke up and sleepily went about getting there meager camping gear into the skiff, Selin watched the wolf silently. Emger was upset about something. He could tell by the way he walked around with his ears pinned against his back. A cold breeze threatened to freeze them as they dragged the boat back into the water as quietly as they could. “Emger,” Selin hissed before he pushed it away from shore. “Are you staying behind?” For a moment it appeared it that the wolf was going to stay on the bank, looking into the woods with a cold, calm expression that was almost deadly at the same time. Then he suddenly turned and leapt into the skiff, his paws resting on the side at Selin leapt in and they pushed off.

“Not how I planned on waking up,” Bral grumbled as he helped put the boat back into the center of the stream. “Anyone mind telling me what’s going on?” he asked, glaring at Emger who still stood watching the woods. “Something out there?”

“Orc and trolls,” Selin said calmly as if it was no big deal. “Out to drag me back to Diamord.”

“I highly doubt Dezerak is going to take a second chance in letting you escape,” Emger said, his eyes never leaving the bank. “They would kill you – then take your head back to Dezerak as proof that you’re dead.” He shrugged momentarily before his head snapped up when another howl split the air. When the notes died in the cold air he only shook his head in amusment before dropping to the floor of the skiff.

Bral and Selin looked at each other. “And that was?” Selin asked.

“Weather announcement. Hope you two have something warm to get through a typical autumn storm.”

Breaking into laughter, Bral rubbed his temple. “You’re kidding me, right? What else dose your kind speak about like that? What color the grass is for the day?”

Aranging his wings around him comfortably, Emger didn’t answer for a moment. “It’s a reliable way to get information across a long distance fast,” and he glanced at Selin knowingly. “Expeically during war time.”

“For the most part,” the elf said softly before going quiet once more.

It drizzled until dawn, then became a steady rain that soaked them to the core. Emger had them pull of on the west bank of the river in the morning where they huddled under a thick outcrop of trees, the boat pulled up on the grassy slope upside down so that rain did not fill it. Bral slept while Emger and Selin talked of the days long past. They were quiet, both seeming to sense that there was something happening. It was during that talk that Emger told him more about the girl.

“She’s one of a lost line of mages,” Emger said softly. “Long ago, before the time of Jesparan’s forfathers, there were six powers that formed the foundation of magic. All but five were eventually lost as time wore on and the order they served in was destroyed. She weilds one of these powers. Alynn recognized it for I taught him the difference between a the mage types.”

“So she is going to defeat Dezerak?”

“She could, if we find her and train her before Dezerak finds her. He has ways of finding all the lines and breaking them by killing the member carrying the power. Unlike the magic of the wolves it does not rely on a single element. The blood carries the ability to control all magic and elements. Yet, it chooses to become proficient in a single power. In her case, air.”

Selin was silent, trying to ignore Bral’s snoring. “There is a war coming.”

“Yes, the Second Great War. And we have time before he strikes. He will hunt you as long as he can and when he loses you he will go back to his original plans of throwing Deor down. If Deor falls it will not take long for the rest to as well. The southern lands he has control over but they will quickly be controlled feverently once he learns you fled south. And yes, I need you to convince the south to fight for us before he does. That will be later. We need to find this girl and bring her to Thyrayyah as well. She needs training. Her encounter with Alynn could have been disatorus if he hadn’t realized what his pack was up against and pulled a reteat. He lost quite a few of his pack.”

The elf nodded, pulling his cloak around him tighter. “And what of Alynn? He is a friend or foe in this war?”

“Neither for he refuses to align with either side but he is, for all concerned, on ours. He is my pupil since a pup and I know how he thinks. Of course, he needs a mate which is the only subject he will argue with me severly on. In due time, I’m sure. There are many wolves that believe that Alynn should leave humans be entirely. He offers aid to as many as he hunts. He may not like anything that walks on two legs but I’ve tried to convince him that it may be humans that deliver us from this darkness.”

Resting against the trunk of a smooth barked tree, Selin closed his eyes a moment before gazing over the calm river. “A war you want me to fight,” he said softly. “Despite my vow to leave the past behind and never stand with men again?”

“Yes,” Emger said simply and with such confidence that Selin glared. “You plan on watching this war come and go by, only to become a slave or dead at the hands of his army? No, Selin, should war come to wherever you choose to hide, you will draw the blade of your family’s House and fight. It is best you help direct men in the right direction so that they do not…” The speed in which Emger rose to his feet and faced the forest startled Selin who sat up. “We have company,” Emger growled.

The moment Selin rose to his feet, a group of forest clad figures stepped from the shadows and faced them in the moonlight. There weapons were drawn, Selin’s own hand on the pommel of his sword. Emger stood where he was, hackles raised and wings arched slightly around his body as if trying to make himself look bigger then he was. Bral slept on.

“Who are you?” One of the men stepped forward, his sword pointed directly at Selin’s throat. “Where do you come from and what brings you south?”

“I am…Selin,” the elf replied evenly. “I travel with Bral Akerlan and my wolf companion, Emger Ronan, to the City of the Mages.”

Whispering something to his men, Selin remained motionless as they went to wake Bral rougly and began to search through there packs. A chill went through Selin’s body, settling within his wounds. Casting a nervous look at Emger who watched him quite closely before turning back to the men who were at the boat, Selin remained where he was. The pain son disapeared. “Repaired by magic, it would seem,” one of the men said to his leader. “Good magic.”

“Come with us and do not argue,” the man said. Selin was pushed forward with Bral into the group. Emger growled mencincingly when they tried to put a rope around his neck or push him in any way with his comrades. For a moment, Selin thought that the wolf would bolt into the forest but he didn’t. He was simply showing his intent dislike to what was happening.

The trail they followed was narrow, forcing them to walk single file into the deeper parts of the wood. He noticed that there belongings were gathered and at one point handed back to them. “You are an elf,” the leader said to Selin after an hour of walking. “But not of Blackwood.”

“Sirannon,” Selin said.

“Prince Saryon-Aes’Selin,” Emger added with a growl. “You better just forget hiding your name, Selin. Just because you’re a hero in a song means nothing.” The elf glared at him while the men made whispered comments. “They would find out eventually,” the wolf added.

“I am Breldan. If you are indeed Prince Aes’Selin then we are your friends, not foe.”

Selin nodded his thanks. “Dezerak hunts me. I escaped shy a week ago from Slagent. Fyrfac was sent out as well. I believe they think I fled to Sirannon but they will discover that I did not and send the beast south with other foul creatures.”

The path faded into a field. In the distance they could see a village shroud in the misty vale that covered the entire forest. Brelden spoke of his village, under the rule of Dezerak but mostly forgotten being so far in the wild of the forest. He was about to go into the troubles they were facing when Emger cried out in warning. “We’re under attack!”

Comeing from the path they had just exited, a band of black hounds and demon wolves and orcs leapt out with a battle cry that sent chills down there limbs even as they reached for weapons. Jaarael sang as Selin pulled it from the scabbard and swung it in an age old dance he was sure he had forgotten. Emger leapt at the throat of one of the demons before any magic could be used and they fought savagely while the others stalked around the edge of the battle waiting for a chance to kill. Meeting a blow with a swift parry, Selin found his body remembering a time before his impironsment and his blood sang with the thrill of the fight. When Jaarael was thrown from his hand the Dragon, Lathul, came to his aid. He had a moment to find Emger and Bral, the blacksmith still alive and quite capable of using a sword himself as he brought another orc to the ground in a pool of blood. The wolf had disposted of quite a few of the black hounds and now circled with a large demon wolf. Blood soaked the gray pelt and Selin could tell he was favoring his right foreleg.

Reaching out into the depths of his mind and air around him, Selin found a line of magic, stronger then the lines in the north and grabbed it. Power surged through his body, sizzling and awakening something almost dead within him – a will to live and to fight against the evil that had nearly destroyed him. The magic formed with lightning speed to the request of his mind seconds before he let out a cry to Emger who ducked and let the demon take the full blast of power. Howling in rage as it ate at the flesh and seeped into the black blood that flowed through its veins, the demon fled toward the woods only to be struck down by Emger’s attack. It shuddered violently before dying.

“Make for the village,” Brelden said, coming up to Selin as the elf knelt next to the wolf. “None escaped. No message will be sent to Dezerak through them.”

Emger lay down, his breathing heavy and blood from his foes mixed with his own. Replacing his blades, Selin gathered Emger into his arms and rose with Bral, shaken and pale but very much alive, behind him as the party remained to finished gathering those that fell. “They weren’t after you,” Emger said softly. “Parties such as that are common in these parts…”

“Will you shut up and save your energy, wolf,” Selin growled.

One of the men that came with them lead the trio to an inn that was empty save the snoring drunks that had fallen over there mugs. Two buxom ladies cleaned up the tables and replaced the chairs. “Siarra! A room, if you please. And hot water.”

“What happened, Nirald? Anouther attack?” A dark haired women came toward them, her eyes growing wide at Emger’s wounds. He hadn’t passed out, which Selin did not expect, but he was weakening. “Oh, the poor thing! Tae, go get some water boiling. I have a room for you. This way!”

The inn was simple and very quaint. Selin thought it was a palace after the dungeons in Slagent and did not complain as much as Bral wanted to. The room had a single cot, a fire place, and an open window. Laying the wolf on some blankets from the bed, Selin ran his finger along the right leg as Emger lay there in pain but not muttering a word. “It’s not broken,” Selin concluded, taking the water the tavern girl handed to him, her face pale at the sight of the blood. When Emger only grunted his reply Selin turned to Bral. “I have some of the slave your mother gave me in there. We’ll use it on him.”

Bral tried to protest on who it was meant to be used on when Selin silenced him with an order. Emger lay quietly as he worked, removing the blood from the demon and his own so that he could smear some slave into the wounds. He yelped once at this and out of habbit, Selin whispered calming elven words to him. Finally, Emger slept and he finished his administraions without worry about what the wolf was feeling or doing. Bral had bathed during this time in water the two women carried in. When he finished he went downstairs to see what happened to Brelden and if he had returned yet with the ones the had fallen. Selin bathed then left Emger to sleep. As much as he wanted to join the wolf in peaceful slumber he was just as hungry and keen elven senses were picking up a delicious smell from the downstairs area.

Brelden had returned and sat with ale in hand while Bral took another helping of the meal Siarra placed before him. The ranger waved to him when he entered and he sat down, not refusing the plate the women put in front of him. “How is the wolf?” Brelden asked after a moment, watching them with an odd smile of amusment.

“Sleeping. His wounds are not deep. He will heal.”

Bral snorted. “I wish he wasn’t so annoying. He’s a Seer, isn’t he?”

It was the ranger that spoke while Selin tried to swallow the bread he had been chewing. “Emger Ronan is known to this village. He often brought Alynn Easal here as a pup to show that we were not as evil as his father said we were. Emger is a friend to us thus you are friends as well.”

“We are heading toward the Border Pass,” Selin said after a moment. “I will depart as soon as Emger is well. He is most eager to get me to safty.”

The ranger leaned back in the chair, the legs creaking as he did so. “If you are Aes’Selin then I understand his reasons.”

“Let me guess,” Selin said gloomily, “he prophecies my escape, too.”

“Nay, he said nothing of it but we only know him as a friend to the village who seldom visited and often with a growing Alynn in tow. He might have though said nothing to us. He did warn us last year that times were growing darker. It is why our watches and patrols were doubled and continued through out the year. Indeed, he spoke true for the Dark Lord sends his groups even into our village to take children for his purposes or to take horses we have been breeding for years. It sickens me to know they will be abused and killed as quickly as they were taken in battles against those that bred them. Our scared strains are kept hidden in the mountains.” He smiled. “Solistic is often seen guarding them.”

Selin laughed. “You must have seen him recently.”

“This morning,” Brelden replied. “A bay ran with them but they did not stop and continued on.”

“Selin sent them a head while we took the river,” Bral replied, now stuffed to his content and sipping the ale happily. “The bay was mine, a part aryor from the north.”

Brelden nodded in acknowlagement. “A fine piece of horse flesh, both of them. If you wish, I can send men to find them and bring them back to you.”

“I told Ilranis we would reach the Wolvenheth in three days. If I do not met him then, he will come find me,” Selin smiled. “Emger should be well enough to travel soon enough. But I am interested to hear of any news you would have relateing to subjects Emger had told me of.”

Siarra filled there mugs again and they waited for her to leave. Brelden frowned, his gaze on his glass as he concentrated on it. When she disappeared for the night, dimming the lights until only the one closets to them remained lit and the fire burned down in the hearth, he spoke. “We know little of what happens in Deor,” he said softly. “Word did reach us that Prince Jerren Renis was killed in a mission to Ennyndor. The king is wounded from a northern skirmish and Ralur Soreath is seeking the throne in earnest with the council’s approval.”

“But not yours,” Selin noted. He knew the name of Soreath well and knew what it meant.

“We care not but there is talk that the elves of Blackwood have begun to patrol outside of there wood under the orders of Tiarnen, first born son and heir to Thranorn.”

“Tiarnen was a boy when I last met him,” Selin mused. “Bearly into his thirteenth year. I was traveling with Jesparen then.”

The man smiled. “He has grown but I’ve never met him.”

A yawn from Bral brought the matter of sleep to each of there minds. Promising to speak with them in the morning, Breldel bid them goodnight and the two returned to the room that had another cot within now and a wolf sleeping with a blanket lain over his very still body. As Bral crawled into bed, falling asleep in moments, Selin made sure his handiwork was still helping the wolf. There was a bowl of water nearby which was half full. He was about to check the empty platter when Emger snorted, his eyes still closed. “I ate, I drank, I’m sleeping. Go away.”

Unable to stop himself from smiling, Selin shook his head and shed his cloth at the bed stand. The bed was rough but warm and much more comfortable then the wet ground he might have been sleeping in if Brelden hadn’t appeared. He wanted to think about what tomarrow would bring, what the future held and what the news of Jerren meant when sleep took him, drawing him into a peaceful dream that held no fears, no demons and no Dark Lords for a time.

eIX f

Morning flooded the room in an eerie light. Rising within moments of opening his eyes, Selin quickly pulled on his cloths and looked around. Bral was still asleep, snoring softly. Emger was gone. With a muttered curse, Selin left the room to find him. The inn was busy in the hall thus he slipped into the back door and into the stables. “Emger?”

“Ye looking for de ‘ay wolf?” a voice asked in a tone that made Selin cringe. He turned to the skinny girl with long brown hair and a face to narrow for her large eyes. “’e went out ‘is mornin’.”

He didn’t get any closer then where she stood, washing the cloths in the basin. An eerie feeling came over him and his heart began to race involuntarily. “Thank you,” he quickly said, forgoing any further talk with her and disappearing inside the house. Long ago he had learned to follow his instincts and he would not disobey them again. Slamming the lock shut, Selin began to gather there things. “Bral! Bral, wake up!” When the man only moaned and turned over, Selin snatched the blanket from him, letting gold air do the finishing touch. “Damit, why do I always have to travel with men that sleep in past dawn! Up!”

Blinking the sleep from his eyes and scowling as he fumbled for his own cloths, Bral watched as Selin packed up there things again. “Now what? I thought I could sleep in for once?”

The elf glared but kept his tone even. “Emger ran off this morning. Where to, I don’t know but there was a girl out there that didn’t feel right.”

“The ugly skinny one?”

“You saw her already?” Selin snapped, pausing in his attempt to fasten his cloack around his own slight shoulders. Once, if, he reached Thyrayyah, he owned his body a treat for enduring the torment it had been put through. “Where? When?”

Pulling his shirt over his head, Bral frowned, clearly not liking that they were leaving so soon. “Last night, before you came down to eat.” Then he froze. “You think she’s after you or something?”

“Don’t know. Something about her wasn’t right and from past experiences I’m not taking any chances.”

Bral gathered his pack and swung it over his shoulders. “What do you think she is?”

“A master wraith or a dark mage,” Selin said softly. Bral went pale. “Even I can’t fight them with the magic so low these days. Last night was pure luck. I sense no magic in the area now. Come on. Lets get out of here before it tries anything.”

The left the room and moved into the hall way. Selin lead him toward the main exit casually with Bral following his lead and trying not to look around in fear. Siarra waved to them, insisting that they stay for dinner, as they walked past her. “And don’t worry about paying…” she was saying when Emger appeared at the door like a wraith himself. He was favoring his leg but did not seem to notice any pain. Selin caught his apprehensive look and left the women who was still talking. The wolf remained at the door, away from the gathering crowd in the hall while they made there way through it. Quite suddenly his jumped and yelled, “Run!” Selin looked behind him and saw the skinny women coming toward them with more speed then a human should poses, shoving men and the tavern girls out of the way as if they were twigs. Both broke into a run and made it outside just as Emger barked loudly at the wraith. Power surged through his coat as if a wind was blowing it every direction possible before it centered and was hurled at the being. It wasn’t enough to bring it down but it did knock it back. “Malhe Ilranis!” he shouted, sprinting after the elf and mad who were running down the street. It was only then that Selin found others coming toward them. Betrayed! How foolish could he be?

Ilranis and Aenax tore through the streets toward them. Emger yelped once before leaping out of the way of the pounding hooves. Aenax slid to a halt so that Bral could jump on but Ilranis only slowed to a lope so that Selin could grab a fistful of mane and, with a painful grunt, pulled himself astride the powerful stallion before setting off again.

They lost Emger.

Neither realized that the wolf had fallen behind until they saw the Wolverheth looming over them. It was covered in moss, tree and sparsh shrubs. Most of the land had disappeared into a rolling prarie not long after they left the village. Both were tired and upset. There food was almost gone which meant either they had to hunt or find a human inbabitance willing to help them out. “Now what?” Bral asked when they had stopped and stared at the Wolverheth for what seemed an hour.

“In don’t know. Emger said…” He froze. “Emger!”

Bral’s mouth dropped and looked behind him. “Oh, we forgot about him! Now what?”

Cursing softly, Selin rubbed his temple. “We’re entering wolf country, at that. Taheyr Roahai in the Marl that I remember. If they’re as dangerous as Emger said these days, then our best bet is to stop here and wait till morning to pass into it. We should reach the wood elves by night fall tomarrow. Perhaps Emger can catch up with us then.”

There was little the could do thus they set up camp and ate the rest of the provisions they had brought with them. If Selin was right and they made it to the wood elves tomarrow then they would be able to refill there stores. Selin took the first watch while Bral slept and the two aryor grazed or dozed. He watched Ilranis intently, reliying on natural instincts to alert him to danger. The moon had reached it’s peak when the wolf cry went out, distant and to the north. Selin rose, listening intently but not daring to think that it was Emger. He felt guilty for not paying attention during there escape but couldn’t help it. The wolf howled again, sounding urgent – the upruptly cut off. His heart clenched but when it did not sound again he sat down, pulling his cloak around him tighter. He waited a few more hours until waking Bral who sleepily took his post.

Night came with the dreams of Jesparan again. Khayr Rukan was burning. He was trapped within the halls trying to get people out but facing the wriaths that reached for him with fingers that could freeze one’s blood to ice. He dreamed of the past and the present until the merged into one. Men screaming, the ring of steel against steel, and arrows whistling over head. He woke just before he himself was cut down by a ragged, bloody sword of a troll.

“Bad dream?”

It wasn’t Emger’s voice nor Brals. Starlting to a sitting position Selin came face to face with a dark winged wolf, eyes of radient gold that were calm and composed as they watched him. Seated an arms reach from his feet, Selin quickly realized that the wolf held the same denemor as the gray Seer. “Who…who are you?” He glanced at Bral – sound asleep against the rock.

“Alynn Easal,” the wolf said, his dark brown coat blending in with the clear night easily. “I expected to find you with my mentor, Emger Ronan, but alas that he be held up in Merecrest.”

Movement caught his attention and he spotted a handful of wolven shapes drifting around the campsite, uncaring for the fire that had burned down with Bral’s ignorance. He would punish the man latter. The wolves were calm and were not even causing trouble with the two aryor. Ilranis bent his head down to sniff a white male who snorted softly before walking under the stallion’s legs to sniff something else. “Solistic is known to me,” Alynn replied when Selin startled at the exchange. “He was quite relieved to see us, as a matter of fact.”

“Emger…” Selin began, pausing to replace the moisture in his throat.

The wolf cut him off, standing and walking toward the fire. “He sent a message to us earlier. This is a handful of my pack, which is smaller then it should be. Hard times calls for smaller packs to ensure no one starves.” He sighed, golden orbs looking out toward the mountains where the forest of Blackwood draped them in a dark blanket. His eyes dropped to the ashes before pawing at them idely. “I sent a group to rescue the old rascle. He was able to tell me that you had escaped but something shut him up. Either he has been killed, which I doubt, or he they silenced him temporarily. Merecrest has recently become the residence of a number of dark mages. Emger would not have known of it.”

“It was a wraith that attacked us in the inn,” Selin said thoughtfully.

“Really?” There was only a shadow of amusment in the young male’s tone. It was laced with fear and worry as well. He looked at one of the wolves, a tawny female with eyes more a hazel green rather then gold. She woofed softly, concerned before stalking back into the shadows. “Aira is a skilled mage despite her age. I sent her to Merecrest – she has power that I wish I had when we confronted the girl two weeks ago. Three of my pack was killed.”

Selin nodded, relaxing and edging his way to the fire. “Emger told me of that. It is the girl we seek.”

“She disappeared a few days ago into Blackwood after stealing a horse from Jerren’s company,” Alynn said with a smile. “Gather some more wood. You will want a fire tonight. You watchmen is obviously less watchful then he should be.”

“So he is,” Selin grumbled. “You want to wake him? I think it would serve him right.”

A light glowed in Alynn’s eyes. Michive, Selin noted with a smile. “My pleaure. Even more so if you’re not around when he wakes. I might make him remember what the word ‘sentry’ means.” A few of the wolves, still circling slowly in there silent dance, snickered, licking there muzzles eagerly. “Don’t worry. No harm will come to him. Just a scare that he will remember for life.”

It was strange that Selin found Alynn so easy to trust was he struck off to gather some wood for the fire again. He heard a scream and the snarles of wolves not long after leaving. For a moment he felt he should run back to see if the wolves weren’t getting carried away – they all did look thin and hungry. But he didn’t. Perhaps they could take the man off his back this way. He filled his arm with as much wood as he could find and started back. When he entered the clearing he found that Ilranis and Aenex had joined in the fun and were standing away from the site as if they had run away. Ilranis snorted playfully when Selin walked by, nuzzling the elf’s arm. Shaking his head he walked nonchalantly into the clearing. Bral was sprawled on his back, a wolf on each apendige to keep him from getting up, and Alynn sitting happily on his chest giving him a warning and lecture.

“…so you promise to do exactly what you are asked, no matter how tired, hungry or…”

“Yes…yes! I do! Please, please…oh…Selin! Help!”

“I see you’ve met our guests,” Selin replied easily as he set the wood down. “I suspect Alynn has given you the proper wake up call I asked him to give you, seeing that I awoke with a wolf at my feet and you sound asleep while they prowled our camp. Thankfully, they were friendly or we would be dead.”

Alynn chuckled as he leapt from the man’s chest and shook his pelt a moment. He turned to the four wolves pinning Bral down and barked gruffly. They left him, one licking his face, murmuring something about how tasty he was before laughing and bounding away. Alynn sighed and yawned, streaching out his legs before him. Selin went about preparing a fire and Bral scampred back to the rock, shaking miserably. “Served you right,” Alynn muttered.

“Alynn,” Selin said after he had set up most of the wood for a fire. “You mentioned the girl disappeared into Blackwood after stealing a horse from Jerren? Would that be Jerren Renis, prince of Deor?”

The wolf nodded, his body sprawled on the ground in phenoix-style, wings dropping on his sides. “Yes. The prince. Never met him but I’ve heard he’s good of heart and brave. Prince Tiarnen saved him from those that tried to murder him.”

“I was told he was dead.”

“Ah, well, if you heard that from Merecrest then I’m sure it was addled. The village leader is said to be some demonic form of man that isn’t actually a human. A dark mage, most likely. Want some help with that?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow at Selin who fought with the tinder and flint over wet wood. “It’s wet. You’ll never get it to kindle.”

Before the elf could reply, Alynn whispered something that came out more like a soft woof and the wood exploded into flames. Selin leapt back with a cry. “Ah! Watch it!” He brushed off his thighs, as he rose to his knees. The other wolves grinned, now sprawled out around the clearing, some dozing, some watching. The white male that he had seen touch Ilranis’ nose was close to Alynn, alert and silent. “You could have warned me,” Selin grumbled.

“And take the fun out of it? I think not!”

“You’re a fire mage I take it?”

“Nope,” Alynn said rather cheerfully. “A Master Mage, trained in Thyrayyah. Three years, as a matter of fact. My blood is so mixed with the different types of magic I taught myself all not to mention was able to master some of the things only humans can. Emger prides himself in my training in magic and lore. I’m not an idot, which most in my pack are thankful of.”

Selin only nodded before seating himself by the fire and drawing his cloak around him. They were silent for a long time until Alynn started up talk again. The night wore on as they spoke of the past, of Selin’s escape from Slagent and his journey thus far. Alynn filled him in on things that he had learned recently. He had few loyal to his cause, Selin discovered, but those that were kept eyes on more then the Alphas in the past had. Alynn, having been trained in Thyrayyah since he was a pup, had grown use to humans and knew that the future of Rerir rested in there hands and with there swords. Thus he made it a point to know the wearabouts of the leaders of men, and of the wood elves. He told Selin that the wood elves had little trouble from Dezeark at the moment, that they were kept safe within Blackwood. He rarely sent spies into the wood for few came out and those that did bearly made it, with or without there report. Dawn came quickly and with it the first howl. The white wolf, a beta named Sennes, leapt up next to Alynn. All went silent as the wolves listened.

“It is Aria,” Alynn reported. “Emger has been found. We are to lead you into the Border Pass without him. He will comes as quickly as he can. He escaped on his own, appernly. Senes, make the reply short and curt.” The beta nodded and bounded away a few lengths before lifting his head to the dawn sky and letting out a mournful howl. Selin smiled.

“I like that,” he noted when the beta was done. “Usefull method of communication.”

Alynn smirked. “And you thought we howled at the moon!” His chuckled was low and deep. Selin trusted that smirk when he could not Emgers. This wolf was a proud leader and meant business while making sure he enjoyed himself. He had to stay on top, after all. One slip and he could easly find himself facing the fangs of one of his pack mates in a challenge for rank. He saw few scars on the dark brown-black coat which suggested that Alynn had yet to find such trouble. 

They set out for the Border Pass not long after dawn, leaving Emger to catch up while the High Pack lead them into the south.

e X f

The view was beautiful, she had to admit that. Khayrael stood at the window over looking the city of Khaore. Her body was healed save for the bruises that still were a bit noticeable. Tiarnen hadn’t spoken to her much since that night she arrived. That was good because the man gave her the creeps. Maybe it was because he was an elf. Or maybe it was simply because he was male. It didn’t matter. She wanted to leave and she wanted to leave now. Something was different. She was different. It was a feeling she had been fighting since the confrontation with the wolves. She had always known she could use magic – her father had taught her simple tricks and had told her what magic was. But the night the wolves had attacked she had fought back with more then the tricks she had been taught. Lightning from her hand had shot out. She had killed – three wolves at the least and she felt sick. Wolves had always fasinated her and she had killed three of the beautiful creatures. Sure, it had been in self defense but…she didn’t want to kill anything. In her mind, she was a murder.

Below the streets were beginning to thin out as the day drew to a close. She had been here three days and she wanted out. She was fed up with waiting for Tiarnen to come speak to her. She had asked the woman, Brissis, to tell him that she wanted to talk to him about getting out of here. Brissis had complied, promising her to tell the prince of her request, and politely reminding her that he was busy with his duties as heir to the elven throne. That was three days ago and she was getting frustrated.

With a growl, Khayrael turned to flop herself on the bed, pounding the pillow once before burring her face into it. “Damn it…”

She had to leave. Why, she didn’t know. She felt as if she was being followed, stalked by something she didn’t want to meet. The longer she stayed here, at the edge of the dark woods haunted by evil itself, she felt more afraid. She considered herself lucky to have been attacked by tricksters and pranksters of the forest rather then the other creatures that were known to prowl within it. And, thought she refused to admit it, thankful that Tiarnen’s company had been passing by on there way home.

By the time she rose the sun had set and she was as restless as ever.

She was leaving – tonight. Forget Tiarnen. Forget the elves. She had to get to Thyrayyah! Quickly she packed her cloths, gifts from Brissis while she was here. She found an old cloak that was warmer then her own and drapped it around her shoulders. After braiding her hair into a long plait down her back, Khayrael slipped out of the room and made her way through the woodland palace and into the kitchens. She used magic, the lines stronger here then in Rand which she was thankful, to hide herself under an invisibility cloak and take the few things she could. She would have to make them last. She left the hall, her invisabily cloak dropping as she slipped outside.

Thankfully, she had been no prisoner while staying at the palace of the woodelves. She knew where her horse was and the way out. Pulling her hood up over her head, she went to the barn, acting as nonchalantly as possible as she passed the stablehands and guards. Sicaol was in a stall, grazing placidly on his hay. As she slipped into his stall, she dropped her bag within and went to the horse, whispering soft endearments to him. “Ready to get out of here?” she asked softly. He snorted as if she was joking and went back to more hay. “Well, I am, and you’re coming with me. Sorry to ruin your paradise.”

Khayrael peeked over the gate and waited until the place was dark an quiet before moving quickly to the tack. Her stuff was there, thankfully. Sicaol didn’t look pleased that he was being tacked up as she worked, skilled fingers working fast over the girth and bridle. After securing her pack onto the saddle she lead him out, casting a muffle spell over his hooves to make there passage less noticeable. She didn’t think her inviability spell was strong enough to cover herself and a horse so the lead him to the courtyard and mounted up. Sicaol pranced slightly before she gave him a swift, hard nudge that sent him off at a gallop through the gates, startling the guards who cried out before they could stop her. She was free! The streets of Khaore were empty with only a few stragglers to jump out of her way. She reached the road and turned toward the mountains of Ennyndor and the Border Pass.

It was dark when she finally slowed Sicaol to a walk and let him plod along on the fermiluar road. Her cloak was warm so she snuggled into it deeper, fighting off the surpassing sounds of night that made her feel uneasy and worried. More then once she glanced behind her as if something was following her.

Sicaol was the first to react. He reared suddenly, letting out a whinny of fear before trying to bolt. Khayrael checked him, yanking one rein around so he would only be able to spin in a circle before she saw it. It was a shadow at first, looming above them on a pillar of rocks, eyes red. Fear hit her cold, slamming into the pit of her stomach like a glacier. It was a cat, black and deadly with blood dripping from it’s muzzle from a fresh kill. What it was she wasn’t sure but she didn’t want to get a closer look. Sicaol tried to bolt when the cat screamed, bunched and prepared to leap at them.

“Khayrael!”

The voice screamed too late and she was about to turn to find the person responsible when the beast leapt at her. Insticily she screamed, her hand flailing to protect her. Power surged in her blood, raw and so powerful she nearly gaspted. It cascaded from her core into her arm, merging and becoming a glowing aurora of crackling energy. Just before the deadly talons struck her and Sicaol, who reared again before springing into a run, the power shot forth in white light and lightning. With a scream, the cat landed on the ground, writhing in flames before dying.

Sicaol was pulled up and she turned to the rider that was sliding off a black unicorn and running toward her. The moonlight showed his features clearly – it was Tiarnen. “Khay…you alright?” He dragged her from the bay and held her at arm’s length, studying her face. “Khayrael…”

“I’m fine!” she snapped, throwing his hands away from her shoulders. “I had it.”

His eyes were hard in the moonlight. “That was a mountain mehker, girl. And what were you thinking, coming this way at night? I came to speak with you as you asked only to find Brissis in a panick because you had disappeared! Is this how you treat all your hosts or just elves?”

“Oh, shut up! I wanted out of there and was sick of waiting. The least you could have done,” and she jambed a finger into his chest, “was tell me when you were going to talk to me! I might not have run off.”

He wanted to slap her. Tiarnen held his ground, and his stare as she turned back to her horse. After finding out that she had taken her horse and fled into the night, only his wrath had sent him out to look for her. Foolish girl! His father would kill him if he found out he had entered the Border Pass at night. Clenching his fists he was about to whirl away when he saw the wolf on the ridge where the mehker had once stood. It shimmered and was gone.

“Khay…”

“Don’t call me that!” she snapped at him as she started to mount Sicaol again. “You’re not a friend.”

It bearly phased him. “I just saw a ghost,” he said. When she looked at him skeptically, he pointed to the rock. “They exsist. I live here, remember.” She only rolled her eyes at him. “It was a winged wolf, white…” His voice faultered when it appeared again, lowering it’s head and taking a step back. Khayrael gasped. “Come on,” he told her and began to climb the cliff wall – the wolf had already disapared.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Khayrael asked, dismounting and leaving Sicaol with the unicorn. “What if another mehker appeared and went after the horses – and is following a ghost-wolf a good idea?”

“Nightwind can watch Sicaol and following a winged wolf ghost is better then following a Shadowling.”

She snorted but scrambled after him. Part of her was intruiged the other half frightened. They were following a wolf ghost! “Do you do this often?” she asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible even if her mood was steadily growing to very annoyed. “Chase after ghosts, that is.”

Ignoring his agile leap over the ridge, she took his hand and let him help her to the top. Immediently she pulled his hand from his and began to dust off her pants. “No,” he replied, scanning to top of the cliff. The trees were thick but not as menencing and dark as the main forest that streached below them like a black blanket. She also looked around but less intently then he. The wolf didn’t appear again. “Then again,” he said softly,  moving forward a ways, “not many wolves come to me after being murdered.”

Only an elf would have been able to locate the body of the mangled white wolf that lay in shreads within the brush. She squeaked in horror, turning away for a moment to compose herself while he went to the body. “A male,” he said. “Old, too, judging from the amount  of gray fur on his muzzle.” He lifted his head to peer into the woods then back to the ground. The wolf stood within, looking at him and repeating the movement. Puzzled, Tiarnen followed with Khayrael suddenly pressing near him as they followed the fleeting form of the spirit. “He was dragging the body somewhere,” Tiarnen mused, his eyes watching the wolf as well as the ground. “Or the old one ran and met his end here. Watch your step,” he whispered almost tenderly, letting her step over the fallen log.

They entered clearing that was once the entrance to a den. Khayrael moaned, flinging her face into Tiarnen’s arms at the gruotest sight that lay there. A female wolf lay dead, torn as the male was and still snarling in her death. They watched the ghost bend down to touch her body sadly before disappearing only to stand at the den’s entrance the next. Tiarnen told her to wait. “I think I know what’s going on,” he said and left her with the mother, tears in her eyes and her gut churning. Finally, she turned away.

His guide disappeared once he entered the tunnel and he crawled short way before he heard the mewling of a pup. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, his nose smelled the blood and something else that reminded him of a newborn baby. Crawling toward the sound of the pup his hand met something hot, sticky and furry and winced, a knife slicing his stomach as he looked down to see the half-eaten carcus of a wolf pup. Damn monster, he thought. Mehkers were vicious killers who would kill even humans on a territory they claimed, no matter who came first. This family had been unfortionate in choosing a location that a mehker had also wanted. It took him a few moments to find the small bundle of white fur and dwarfed wings, also covered in blood and nearly drowning in a puddle of it’s siblings lifeforce. Picking it up, he cradled it to his chest and began the careful climb out of the den.

“Khayrael! Here!” he cried upon coming to the entrance. He handed the pup to her and she cried out like a mother being reunited with her child. “That was what the old male wanted us to find!”

“I don’t see any wounds,” Khayrael mused, running her hands over the puppy. “It’s a newborn, Tiarnen! Hardly a few hours old! Oh…easy. You’re safe,” she cooed as the puppy began to mewl again. She fumbled for her canteen and knelt to pour some off the blood, gently working her fingers through the fur until most of had been cleaned off. “It’s a girl, I think,” she said.

Tiarnen had pulled off his cloak and shirt, bloody and stained from his trip into the den. His hand was bloody, too and she frowned. “The pups were killed, too,” he told her, whipping off his hand on his shirt. “I don’t think we should stay here. Lets get back to the horses. And that thing could very well die without nursiment, girl. Don’t get too attached to it.”

Khayrael frowned and looked down at the sleeping puppy that was no bigger then her hands. Not get attached to it! Sighing, she new it may be too late for that warning. Determined to save the pup, she rose and scampered after Tiarnen, the pup a damp lump in the crouk of her arm.

The unicorn and horse still stood where they had left them, the body of the mehker having burned into a smoking mass long ago. The horses shied slightly at the smell of blood and Tiarnen calmed them with elven words that sounded very pretty to her ears. “There is a creek we can make camp at once we get through the pass,” Tiarnen said, bunching his soiled cloak and shirt into ball before shoving them into his saddlebag. It was cold out but apparently the chill wind that ran through the cliffs did not affect them. He mounted the unicorn then held the puppy while she climbed into her own saddle. She wanted to proest about his assumption that he was coming with her then decided that perhaps until she was out of reach of Blackwood. After all, he was a prince with duties. Duties that had kept him from her in the first place.

They rode until dawn, finally coming to an end in the omunious cliffs. Once, Tiarnen had called a sudden halt and went to pick some flowers that grew off into the rocky forest. She had scowled, trying to clam the crying pup. If he was trying to charm her they would fall usleslly on her, she decided. But he didn’t come to present them. He wrapped them and put them in the saddle bag then set off again. It was within sight of the trail that Tiarnen pulled them off next to a shallow stream. Tiarnen tethered the horses, having Khayrael find some sticks to start a fire with. The sun had risen fully over the rim when they sat next to the fire, a pot of water boling within the flames. Tiarnen had bathed father down the steam to get rid of the blood and his shirt and tunic were hanging on nearby brances drying.

The puppy was now screaming her head off with hunger and Khayrael was getting upset at it. “Why save it when we can’t keep it alive,” she muttered, holding it close to her, it’s coat dry from the quick bath she had given it to get rid of it’s siblings’ blood. “It’s still a long way to Thyrayyah and I doubt there is any other stops along the way.”

“There isn’t,” Tiarnen said calmly as if the puppy’s screaming wasn’t effecting him. He rose and went to his saddle bag. “Which is why I picked these.” He unwrapped the flowers as he came back to the fire and she looked at them. “They’re eldahis flowers, a rare one at that. Silver and white are healing and should at least get this bundle of annoying fur to Thyrayyah where there should be someone that can help you with it.” He began to crush the petals and the pods into the water until it was a thick, milky substance that smelled delicious and sweet. He let it cool slightly before handing her the pot, instructing her to place some in the puppies mouth. She did -  and it swallowed and screamed for more but in a softer, thankfull way. Grinning unexpectedly at Tiarnen, Khayrael went about the task of feeding her new charge while the sun crept high and warmed the earth. They were still at the edge of Blackwood, the lands to the south mostly rolling hills and sparsh shrubs with patches of trees jutting out at every odd place. It was peacefull here, and quiet. Tiarnen lay out on the grass, a blanket over his half naked body and eyes closed.

“You’re not cold?” she asked, cradling the puppy closer to her so it wouldn’t freeze to death. “It’s almost winter!”

“And I sense snow coming,” Tiarnen replied evenly. “Elves do not feel the elements as much as humans. I’m fine as long as I don’t catch a cold from the cold water. Get some sleep. Nightwind will wake us if things go amiss. And keep that thing warm.”

She was already pulling the puppy up to her brests where it squirmed it’s way into her body to keep warm. She grinned. “I think I’m going to call her Segarra. My father had a wolf companion when he met my mother. Seganna, she was called. A black winged wolf, though. Died old in the winter but she was loyal and protective of my father. I always wanted her to have puppies so I could name one of them Segarra but she never took a mate.”

Tiarnen’s amused chuckle was her only reply for a time. “And a last name?”

She frowned in thought before shaking her head. “Only Segarra.”

“Segarra Sintann would be her full name,” the elf prince replied, his eyes still closed as he spoke. “I recognized that old wolf, her father who fought his way back to life to protect his remaining daughter. I heard about him, a ledgend of a white wolf who had roamed the cliffs near Blackwood since being cast from his rank of High Alpha. I never spoke to him but I saw him often enough on fleeting missions. Heard he helped humans and other travelers when trouble rose. I don’t doubt that that little thing is his daughter. It would explain why he wanted us to save her. Or try to.”

Khayrael looked at him, frowning. “Why?”

“Perhaps so she can go back and challenge for her rightful rank. Wolves may not have a line of sucession like men, relying on the strongest, smartest, and most cunning to lead them, but Sintann was a powerful leader in his time, influencial until Norc took his place. I believe it was Sintann’s hope that he could play Norc’s game for Alynn Easal is the grandon of Norc and was given the title by heritage, not fighting. At least that is what we are told.”

The girl grinned at the sleeping wolf. “So she’s a princess!”

“No, she’s a heiress. Sleep. You both need it and so do I. Saving your life for the second time is very hard work. Then again…where did you learn magic? You’re heading for Thyrayyah and yet that was a rather powerful spell you threw at that mehker!”

“My father taught me,” Khayrael said, her mind already driffing off into slumber. Her steady breathing followed soon after and Tiarnen was left to keep any further questions he had been forming quiet.

His mind turned back to Jerren Renis – his brother had returned shy a few days ago saying that the prince had returned to Nimat, seeking aid of an old friend and setting out to Nimat on his own without the elves. Just as well, Tiarnen thought. Tennsion between elves and men were hard enough without men using elves to aid in maters of state and vise versa. He would wait for Jerren’s message.

The pup was hungry again when the rose later that day. Tiarnen left her to feed the pup more of the eldahis broth while he went to hunt some small game for there own meal. He returned with a rabbit. Khayrael prepared the meal, the pup curled up in her blankets sound asleep while he cured the hide. Neither spoke while they worked. Tiarnen seemed grouchy to Khayrael who was suddenly feeling nervous around him, thus she was irritable.

“We should start out soon,” Tiarnen said as he watched the rabbits cooking over the open fire, the muddy brown hide drying near by. “As you pointed out last night, winter is coming and we don’t want to get caught in the first snows. Expecially with that pup.”

“I thought you would be heading back to Khaore, being you’re the prince and all.” She was holding the puppy again, stroking it lovingly.

It set Tiarnen on another emotional pull as he watched her, his mouth going dry and his body starting to burn. She was right. He should be back in Khaore but he was almost dead determined to bring her to Thyrayyah safely. He watched her cuddled the pup before checking the meat in an effort to keep his mind off her. She was fisety, sturbbon and downright annoying – everything in a women he usually detested. His last love had left him scared, hard and emotionally tried thus he had distanced his heart from them while his brother flirted his heart away as if he had no care in the world. The city of Janaper was there most common ground to met women, at least the human tavern wenches. The elven girls they met were to predicable and well schooled in manners for Rilorn’s taste. Tiarnen often went along with his brother to keep him out of too much trouble.

They ate in equall silence as that morning before packing up the horses and starting out around noon. Tiarnen lead the way, guiding them out of the border lands and into the plains that streactched out to the south, mountainous hills rising in the distance. He explained that there lay Thyrayyah, City of Mages. Not long after riding out, Tiarnen looked back out of habit to see a strange sight – two horsemen in the company of a pack of wolves. Bringin Nightwind to a halt suddenly, he called to Khayrael to stop also. “What is it?” she asked, annoyed.

“Something that makes no sense,” he said thoughtfully, a frown creasing his face as he spun Nightwind around and loped toward them. With a snort of frustration, Khayrael turned her own mount and followed, the puppy saftley lodged in her arms thus she followed more slowly then the elf.

There was a pack of wolves, Tiarnen noticed that seemed to be at ease with the riders that had dismounted and were streaching there legs out. Tiarnen approached cousiously at first until he realized that they were all watching them. “You travel south?” he asked, his voice  a bit harsh and tone level as Khayrael came to join him.

“Aye,” the skinny blond replied. “To Thyrayyah. We await one of our comanpions who fell behind last night. You are of Blackwood.” It was stated as a question and a fact which made Tiarnen bristle. Then, upon reaching them, he noticed it was an elf, though of finer features then his race, and eyes keener and deeper. The other was a man, a short beard growing on his face as proof of a few day’s travel.

“Prince Tiarnen of Blackwood,” he said. “This is Khayrael, a refugee of Rand also seeking sacutuary in Thyrayyah.”

One of the wolves jumped up from his leasier roll in the grass and looked at her. “Selin! That is the girl you seek!”

Khayrael paled. “Me?” she squeaked, wanting to flee as the two men looked at her, including Tiarnen who blinked in surprise. “Why?”

The wolf snorted, walking proudly with his tail higher in the rank of alpha. Khayrael paled, her mind racing as she rememeber the wolf attack. “Oh…”

“Saryon-Aes’Selin,” the elf replied absently mindely but with a tone of uncertainty that Tiarnan caught onto right away. The name, of course, he knew and he stared, suddenly over whelemed. “Easy, child. We’re here to help you, not hurt you. What is that in your arm?” She pulled out Segarra who whimpered at the cold that hit her small body and tried to get back to the warmth of the girl’s body.

“Her father’s ghost brought us to her,” Tiarnen explained when Selin went to touch the small head. “Sintann’s daughter, if I am not mistaken.”

“Sintann? Sintann Nallar?”

Tiarnen nodded to a shocked Alynn. “Yes. He was killed last night by a mehker. His family murdered. She’s very lucky to be alive.”

One of the wolves woofed softly to his leader and they turned as another group of them came trotting into the opening, the sunlight playing on there coats like shadows. A tawny female lead the procession, and a gray male limped behind him looking extermaly miserable and upset. Three others trailed after them, toungs lolling and looking rather pleased and smug with themselves. Selin went to met them while the human, who mumbled the name Bral Akerlan, stayed with the horses.

Khayrael had edged closer to Tiarnen who looked at her. “You look pale,” he whispered while the company had there reunion, wolves wrestling with each other in greeting or simply nuzzling as they walked by. Alynn remained where he was, peering at the girl and pup for some time before going to talk to his beta. “They can take you to Thyrayyah, Khay. You were correct that I need to go back to Khaore.”

She looked at him, her eyes bright blue and worried. “I didn’t mean it like that. Do you know them?”

He watched the elf, Selin for a moment before answering. “Prince Saryon-Aes’Selin disappeared four-hundred years ago after the Battle of Morh in the Great War.” He frowned as they began to return. Selin caught him giving that look of confusion and cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Yes, the one that was missing for four-hundred years,” he said, almost snappily as if he was tired of explaining.

“Then do you know why Fyrfac was released from Diamord?”

The gray wolf grunted as he limped into the party and collapsed. “Because this fool didn’t fake his death like he probably should have and now Dezerak is hunting him – much like he’s going to be hunting for that girl when word of her skirmish with Alynn’s pack reaches him. And it will if not already. But I’m not going anywhere for a while and since we’re all together I think it’s time we hold council. Alynn – stay!”

“I’m not going anywhere!” the alpha snapped, blinking at the sudden command. “Why did you think I was?”

Steel eyes regared him coldly. “Because I want to make sure you stay put. Only Senes is allowed in on this conversation so you might as well sent the rest of them off hunting or something.” Alynn only sighed in surrender before the company moved away toward the trees and out of the wind. The sky was overcast now, threat of snow on the mountain peeks thus Tiarnen lead them farther into the wood so that they were sheltered from the cold. Alynn’s pack went to hunt, leaving the alpha and beta to deal with the humans. Bral started a fire while Selin and Tiarnen tethered the horses and Khayrael sat down to cuddled the pup some more. Alynn had his nose in her arm, sniffing it and talking to her softly when the elves returned from tending the horses. By then, a fire was burning brightly while the wind howled outside the glade.

“Fortune shines on us for a time,” Emger uprubly began. “It seems that many questions can be answered tonight and plans for the future established. I was told Jerren Renis’ death was falsified. That is good for he is one of those that remains our last hope.”

“In the war,” Tiarnen asked.

“Yes, war is coming to this land,” the wolf nodded. “I